


Hymns Between Sea and Sky

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Avvar, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Politics, Autism, Demisexuality, Multi, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 87,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair Ar Fiona O Ramhold was meant to become a Warden like his mother. His father was some lowlander lord with an heir, so his mother's friend brought him to the Avvar to learn the ways of war before joining the Grey.</p><p>Mara Cousland is the youngest scion of a noble family betrayed. Escaping from the fall of Castle Cousland, she fled to Ostagar in search of the king's justice.</p><p>Neither of them expected to get married - at least to each other. Throw in a Blight and a civil war and you have a recipe for disaster... or a romantic story for the ages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ruins of Ostagar

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Avvar!AU because I am completely obsessed with Avvar!Alistair. Trigger warnings for implied violence and fantastic racism.

Alistair Ar Fiona O Ramhold looked about the ruins of Ostagar curiously as he and Duncan, both dusty and weary from long travel across the southern edges of the Hinterlands, trudged along a path better paved than the beaten-earth tracks and game trails he knew in the Frostbacks. Built by the Tevinter mages to hold back the Chasind and their misty bogs, the shattered fragments of a former Empire were impressive but only reinforced the one truth Avvar understood: impermanence was the only certainty. An eye experienced in defence examined the fortifications of sharpened stakes as he shook his head; where were the runes cast upon stone and wood to sear and freeze darkspawn if they neared and why was the Tower of Ishal, easily the most defensible part of the ruins, guarded by a single man? Rumour painted the Teyrn Loghain, Chief Thane of the Alamarri, as a competent warleader – yet Alistair saw a half-dozen weaknesses that the endless tide known as the Blight could exploit, with or without an archdemon at its head.

            “I’ve seen better defences against the darkspawn at Rathold,” Alistair muttered to Duncan, naming a notoriously shabby and poorly defended hold known for its sneaking inhabitants, at least half of whom were outcast Chasind.

            The Warden-Commander flashed him a warning glance. “Teyrn Loghain has done his best,” the dark-skinned man said pointedly. “He was master of his craft when you were a twinkle in your father’s eye.”

            “Darkspawn don’t think as men do. The hurlocks will throw themselves on those spikes and make of their flesh a bridge for their brethren to cross,” Alistair reminded him, just as pointedly. “Ogres will punch through those stakes like a wyvern through a wicker fence. Why haven’t the shaman-born set up runes to break up the horde’s advance?”

            For a man skilled at killing darkspawn, Duncan was terrible at reading the lines of a battlefield, which made his reliance on Teyrn Loghain concerning. Alistair saw no reason why the Chief Thane should be bothered by taking advice from someone who had lived through three darkspawn sieges in the Frostbacks before Duncan came to make of him a Grey Warden.

            “I will relay your suggestions to Teyrn Loghain when appropriate,” Duncan said flatly as a tall man in heavy armour approached.

            “Don’t worry, I’ll tell him myself. No offence, Duncan, but for a man who can read the trail of a genlock and figure out what he ate for breakfast, you’re shit at planning how to kill them.”

            “And I suppose you are a master of strategy?” asked the tall man in armour harshly, black braids swinging around a pale, stern face.

            “I’ve survived three sieges of the horde in three years,” Alistair responded calmly, meeting the man’s sword-sharp gaze. The steel-grey eyes, flecked with blue-grey, widened for some reason. “I’m no great warrior, not like the Hands of Korth, but I know how to survive a darkspawn siege.”

            The man’s lips thinned. For a man who looked Alamarri, his armour was very Ciriane, though scraped bare of the bright enamel and feathers they preferred. “How would you order the defences?”

            Alistair repeated the comments he’d made about the stakes and how the horde would pile themselves upon it, adding the suggestion about scattering magical runes across them to break up the darkspawn. The warrior, obviously a warleader of some sort, nodded thoughtfully, that sword-sharp gaze assessing Alistair like a potential weapon.

            “Those are practical suggestions. I suppose you’re here to join the Wardens?” he finally asked. For some reason, Duncan had been struck mute and looked worried.

            “Duncan brought me to the Avvar when I was a child, so that Korth and Hakkon Wintersbreath could forge me into a sword against the darkspawn,” Alistair admitted calmly. “My mother was a shaman of the Wardens, I was told, and my father a mighty warrior who could not raise me for he had a son who stood heir to his Hold and would not see that threatened.”

            The warleader’s lips thinned again. “I see.” Those sword-sharp eyes shifted to Duncan. “I will speak to you in my tent later, Warden-Commander. Your wife brought back disturbing information from the Wilds.”

            He turned around and stalked away without a farewell, leaving Duncan visibly fuming at the rudeness, which Alistair couldn’t fault him for. However, the cuff over the ear that left him dazed – delivered by an iron fist in a silverite gauntlet – was completely uncalled for.

            “If I tell you to shut up, you will shut up!” Duncan hissed. “The Grey Wardens are on thin ice as it is with Teyrn Loghain, who you just met, and one misstep could see us thrown out of Ostagar and leave the army vulnerable to the darkspawn!”

            “But he listened to me,” Alistair complained, rubbing his ear with a wince.

            “Only because you offered halfway intelligent suggestions!” Duncan clenched his fists and released an explosive breath. “And your family background was none of the Teyrn’s concern!”

            “Why should he care?” Alistair asked confusedly.

            Duncan looked around, saw people watching, and gestured angrily to the gates. “Go _directly_ to the Warden camp and do nothing but ask for directions. Once there, report to Warden-Constable Gregor and he will assign you a tent.”

            Hurt and confused, finding the livid, slightly wild-eyed man in front of him a far cry from the kind, albeit firm warrior who had chosen him for the Grey Wardens, Alistair rubbed his ear once more and obeyed, wondering what in the name of Korth he’d done wrong. Duncan had mentioned two more recruits – he hoped they weren’t cryptic and confusing as the Warden-Commander had suddenly become.

            Within a few minutes he was hopelessly lost, standing near where the lowlander shaman-born were stationed with their templar watchdogs. A slender woman, aged and in fine silks that were slightly rumpled, approached him and asked if he needed help. Alistair admitted to being a Warden-Recruit and she smiled, turning a still-lovely face into something warm and motherly.

            “I’ll take you there because I need to go check on a couple wounded Wardens. Warden-Constable Brytta ran into an Ogre out there and two members of her patrol – both recruits – were sorely injured.”

            The shaman-born turned out to be a healer named Wynne, something called a Senior Enchanter, and she explained how the lowlanders believed darkspawn came to be as they walked to the Wardens’ camp. Alistair politely listened, not wanting to correct such a lovely old lady, and soon found himself surrounded by blue and grey tents that were much-mended.

            A red-haired daughter of Korth, curvaceous and muscular as her kind were, was trying to tell off a sly-faced man with the look of a Chasind about him but both were sniggering too much for it to have any effect. Wynne sighed, muttered something about birds of a feather, and approached the dwarven woman, who wore armour similar to Duncan’s. “Brytta, I’ve found Duncan’s Avvar recruit.”

            For the second time today, Alistair found himself assessed by a sharp, cool gaze, though Brytta’s eyes were the colour of malachite and hard as the Stone that she sprung from. On her cheek was the brand of the casteless children of Korth, bisected by wicked scars, but Alistair would bet she could take on half the darkspawn horde and win. “How’d you get smacked over the ear?” she asked bluntly.

            “Duncan thought I should be silent without actually telling me to do so,” Alistair complained, just a little. “All because I gave the Teyrn Loghain some advice on darkspawn sieges – I’ve lived through three – and told him my family background.”

            Wynne’s eyes narrowed, then widened, and she sighed. “Oh dear,” she murmured.

            Brytta simply rolled her eyes. “So you’re _that_ Avvar. Ancestors help us all, we need to bring your Joining forward or we’ll have a political shitstorm on our hands. Without breaking confidence, all I can tell you is that you’re what happens when a Warden-Mage screws a _very_ prominent Fereldan nobleman and has a kid when she shouldn’t be able to. Sending you to the Avvar was the only thing Duncan _could_ do short of sending you to the Chantry, which would have been even more fucking awkward in the long run.”

            “Was it Teyrn Loghain?” Alistair asked softly. Maybe that’s why the man was so surprised, because he probably looked like his mother.

            “No, and please don’t fish for answers in the camp or we’ll all be booted out to fight the darkspawn alone,” Brytta ordered – firmly but not unkindly. She even seemed a little sympathetic. “Stay here or wear a full helmet until we get your Joining done. There’s trouble in the North and half the fucking nobility would kill to cause more of it.”

            “I’ll keep my counsel,” Wynne promised softly. “Where’s the wounded?”

            “In the third tent from the left. I think Tel’s gonna lose the leg and if that happens, we’ll either need to cut his throat or dump him in a catapult to launch him at the darkspawn,” Brytta answered dryly.

            The healer nodded and walked off, leaving Alistair with the Wardens. The dwarf rubbed her brow and sighed.

            “I need to go rescue my darling husband from Teyrn Loghain. Daveth, you’ll be bunking with Alistair. Please don’t pick his pockets or let him leave the camp without wearing full armour, including the helmet.”

            Daveth, the half-Chasind man, lifted his chin in offended pride. “I would _never_ rob an Avvar,” he announced.

            “Because you had a sudden spurt of lawfulness or because he’s six inches taller than you and probably weighs twice as much in pure muscle?” Brytta asked dryly.

            “’Cause he’s from Ramhold an’ Otter Clan is in alliance with them,” Daveth answered huffily. “Now if he was from Underhold…”

            Alistair grinned at the Otter clansman. “I hold Movran the Under by the ankles and you paint his manhood with goat’s blood,” he suggested.

            “Only way he’d get blood on his weapon,” Daveth agreed with a smirk.

            “Is he the guy who threw a dead goat at me two years ago after I killed one of his moronic offspring?” Brytta asked, eyes narrowed.

            “Big, dumb and wears a goat-horn headdress?” Daveth asked.

            “Yeah.”

            “Then that’s him.”

            “Huh, thanks for reminding me of him. I need to kill him.” Brytta waved cheerfully and turned to trot off, no doubt to save Duncan from the Teyrn.

            “If not for the Blight, Movran the Under would be dining with the gods,” Daveth smirked. “Pissing off Brytta Brosca’s a good way to die.”

            Alistair could well believe it. “So, I am told there’s another recruit?” he asked, trying to find a subject that didn’t revolve around his father’s identity, which was apparently very dangerous.

            “Yeah. Ser Jory of Redcliffe.” Daveth’s nose-wrinkle said it all.

            Alistair’s eyes lit up. “I have longed to test my skills against a Knight of Redcliffe!”

            “Pfft, don’t waste your energy. He won the grand melee in the tourney at Highever, mostly ‘cause most of the best knights were already down here,” Daveth observed scornfully. “He showed up here, sparred with Milady Cousland – who’s probably only about two inches taller’n Brytta and not that great a fighter – and wound up flat on his arse.”

            “Lady Cousland tripped me!” complained a plump-faced man with close-cropped auburn hair.

            “Darkspawn will trip you and eat your face off,” Alistair said gravely.

            “What d’you know, Ser Knight might be better-looking after that,” Daveth smirked. Alistair got the feeling he liked to needle people, which was unfair to a man who was going to join them in the Wardens.

            “I am honoured to meet you, Ser Knight,” Alistair said, nodding to his fellow warrior. “I am Alistair Ar Fiona O Ramhold.”

            Jory stared at him with the funny expression that Alistair was already sick of. “Maker’s Breath, but you look like-“

            “Shaddup or Bryt’ll have your guts for garters,” Daveth said quickly.

            “But-“ Jory took one look at Daveth’s face, flinched at what he saw there, and fell silent.

            “I am told we will become Wardens soon,” Alistair observed, changing the subject _again._ He felt like he was walking through a battlefield strewn with magical runes and sharpened stakes.

            “Yes. Something called the Joining.” Jory’s expression was confused. “I didn’t think Wardens had so many damned tests.”

            “We’re off to the Wilds,” Daveth added. “Alistair, you know anything about this Joining?”

            “Not a lot, only that it is dangerous and is what makes the Wardens immune to the Blight,” Alistair informed them both. “They become stronger, harder and faster but devour food like a fire does a summer-dry forest.”

            Daveth raised an eyebrow. “Guess Duncan told you more’n me.”

            Alistair shook his head. “I was born to be a Warden, my mother was one, and Duncan took me to the Avvar to be honed as a weapon by Korth’s stone and Hakkon’s cold steel. The shaman of Ramhold would not see me go ignorant to the Wardens, so he taught me all of the Grey’s lore he knew.”

            “Huh.” Daveth scratched his scruffy chin. “I was Conscripted ‘cause I managed to pick Duncan’s pocket in Denerim. Old bastard runs way too fast for someone with that much grey in his hair. Next thing you know, I’m about to be strung up because Sergeant Kylon dislikes cutpurses for some reason and Bryt rocks up, chews Duncan out, and Conscripts me on the spot. _Then_ I found out she knew I could skin-walk and set the whole thing up!”

            Skin-walkers could touch the minds of animals and share their senses. Alistair could see how such a talent could be useful to the Wardens. “Warden-Constable Brytta seems very… pragmatic,” he finally said.

            “Her and Duncan are two peas in a pod ‘cept he handles nobs better than she, unless they’re dwarven,” Daveth agreed. “Don’t let the brand fool you – she’s Warden-Constable of Orzammar and Prince Bhelen Aeducan’s sister-in-law.”

            Alistair nodded wisely. It explained why she told him to stay in the camp and keep to himself. His father must have been _very_ high lowlander nobility.

            Jory sniffed. “She fights without honour,” he grumbled.

            “So do darkspawn,” Alistair informed the knight with an edge to his voice. He was beginning to see why Daveth couldn’t stand the man.

            “I dunno. Reckon the archdemon would take one look at Bryt and Duncan fighting together, shit itself and die,” Daveth said cheerfully. “Those two are fuckin’ scary when they’re working together.”

            “We live in hope,” Alistair said quietly, though he already knew the Warden who killed the archdemon inevitably died, according to the old songs.

            The sound of armoured boots gave them both warning as three warriors, two men and a woman, entered the camp quietly talking. The taller of the men, almost Alistair’s height, was dark-haired and brown-eyed with lines of grief etched in a face too young for it, his silverite armour battered and scarred by darkspawn blood. The ash-blonde woman was much shorter, almost as tall as a male elf though her ears were round, and wore light leather and chainmail of royal blue worked with gilded laurel leaves that had seen hard battle – but no taint-scarring.

            But it was the third man, shorter than the dark-haired warrior but heavier in the shoulders, who caught Alistair’s eye. Fair-haired and blue-eyed with a boyishly handsome face, he wore armour as golden as any Ciriane’s and a greatsword that glowed from the runes enchanted into it. The cheeks were rounder, his skin fairer than Alistair’s sun-browned complexion, but the slightly overlarge nose and shape of the eyes were as familiar to the Warden-recruit as his own.

            All three fell silent, the dark-haired warrior’s jaw dropping and the ash-blonde woman (who he now realised shared the former’s nose, though finer) blinking twice, as they saw him. Alistair drew himself up proudly, met the eyes of the man who had to be the brother who stood heir to his father’s Hold, and stepped forward.

            “Aww shit,” Daveth muttered under his breath. “Looks like that political shitstorm’s about to break.”


	2. The Last of the Laurel Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for discussion of massacre, murder of a child, violence, emotional trauma and death. For the curious unfamiliar with my head-canon, Mara Cousland has autism, referred to as ‘half-Tranquility’ in Thedas.

As she had done other than recounting the tale of what happened at Highever, Mara Cousland remained silent and cradled the last of the wilted laurel leaves from the wild grove that grew up against Castle Cousland’s wall where it met the sea. For a moment, she imagined herself weaving the victory-crowns – a custom from ancient Tevinter borrowed by the Alamarri of Highever, according to folklore – and tried to lose herself in the memory. But the jarring noise of three powerful men arguing and the scent of bog broke through her imagination, shattering her concentration, and she was dragged back into the unpleasant reality of the present.

            Another argument was taking just outside the tent, Duncan ripping into the bastard son of Maric the King had literally stumbled upon and Brytta telling him that it wasn’t Alistair’s fault. The army camp was rife with tension that was thick enough for Mara, notorious for her inability to read people, to see because with Rendon Howe rebelling in the north Ferelden faced two different wars. One alone had the power to devastate them and the other to wipe the people of Calenhad from the map as if they never existed.

            Cu whined at her feet and Mara mechanically rubbed his ears. If not for the hound’s wiles, she would have been captured and mouthing marriage vows to whoever thought to claim Highever through her now. Even Cailan, wed to Anora who was held responsible for his lack of an heir despite the King never siring a bastard on his many, many women, had made some thoughtful noises. Rendon Howe had been more explicit about it, ordering his soldiers to capture Mara alive at all costs.

            If Mara wasn’t going to marry her second cousins Nate (who she’d actually liked) or Thomas (who she loathed) because their children would look like Orlesian backsides, bark like Kirkwall seals and drool like mabari, what made him think she would willingly marry their father, the man who’d slaughtered her entire family? Suicide wasn’t a sin when you were faced with a choice of death or utter despair, after all.

            Once she’d harboured some hope of choosing a husband or perhaps remaining unwed; neither choice bothered her overmuch. But many men, once unsettled by her flat expressions and cold gaze, would overcome their repugnance to claim the half-Tranquil Mara – and through her, Highever, as the inheritance of the teyrnir now hung on Fergus, widowed and childless. But now she was the only coin Fergus had to spend – and spend it he must, wisely, Mara’s feelings be damned.

            “Hey salroka, you okay?” Brytta Brosca’s rough, kind voice startled Mara out of her reverie. The argument between Duncan and Alistair had ended, the former seething and apologetic, the latter seething and thoroughly confused. Mara suddenly realised how it must feel for the tall young man in heavy chainmail and fur to be flung into the storm at the heart of Fereldan politics without knowing _why_. Neither Duncan nor Brytta understood the full ramifications of his presence in the camp – he deserved to know _why_ , if nothing else. Mara could tell him that.

            “No,” Mara admitted softly, compelled to be honest with the Warden-Constable of Orzammar.

            “I heard what happened at Highever. Howe sucks nug nuts and if we find him first, we’ll send you his head on a silver platter.”

            “Thank you, Warden-Constable.” Mara tried and failed to find a smile.

            “What happened at Highever?” Alistair asked of Duncan in what he imagined was a soft voice.

            “Succinctly, Arl Rendon Howe betrayed his liege lord Teyrn Bryce Cousland by slaughtering most of the Cousland family and their retainers after the main bulk of the Highever forces departed for Ostagar under the command of Lord Fergus,” Duncan explained gravely, his spare words painting none of the blood-soaked, smoke-stained horror that had been the Couslands’ last night as a family. “Lady Cousland survived to flee and bring word to the King, but because the darkspawn are the greater threat…”

            “Rendon Howe can entrench himself in the north,” Mara completed hoarsely. “I understand the necessity, Warden-Commander. Darkspawn are worse even than Rendon Howe.”

            “Lady Cousland was one of the first amongst Ferelden’s nobility to recognise the danger of the Blight,” Duncan continued with a solemn nod in her direction. “Teyrn Cousland was the greatest supporter of the Grey Wardens but for King Cailan himself amongst the nobility. His death and that of Teyrna Eleanor Cousland, Ferelden’s greatest naval commander, are a great tragedy.”

            “Mother wouldn’t leave Father at the end,” Mara added flatly. “She told me it was up to Fergus and me now.”

            “I will sing your parents’ names to the Lady of the Skies,” Alistair said solemnly, reminding all who overheard that Cailan’s only living kinsman was also an open heathen, which would go down wonderfully with the Chantry.

            But Mara would take the honour offered. Goodness knows the Maker had failed the Couslands. “Thank you,” she said formally in Old Alamarri, bowing slightly.

            “Lady Mara’s probably one of the greatest scholars of ancient history amongst the Fereldans,” Duncan observed quietly. “The only one greater is Sister Dorcas Guerrin and she was Mara’s main tutor as a child.”

            “The Orlesians – the Ciriane, as you would call them – obliterated much of Alamarri history during their eighty-year occupation,” Mara told the Avvar-raised warrior. “I want – wanted, I suppose – to reclaim some of it.”

            Now she mostly wanted to kill Rendon Howe and put his head on a pike.

            Alistair’s golden-hazel eyes – sign of elf blood, no doubt the reason why Maric didn’t acknowledge him – regarded her sadly. “Nothing lasts forever but the gods,” he said softly in Old Alamarri. “Mourn for what is lost and build anew.”

            “When Rendon Howe is dead, I can do so,” Mara answered quietly as the arguing suddenly ceased in the King’s tent. “But it looks like your fate’s about to be decided.”

            Brytta looked up at the massive young man. “Don’t worry, salroka, you’re not going to be hung or anything. We have the Right of Conscription and we’ll use it if these lot don’t decide to recognise you as your rightful caste.”

            “But being a Warden _is_ my rightful caste,” Alistair said confusedly.

            “Cailan has no children and the line of succession isn’t as clear as the Landsmeet would like,” Mara told him grimly. “That is the problem you pose, son of Maric, because bastard or not you’re next in line – and that threatens other people’s plans.”

            Alistair looked _very_ confused now. “What is a bastard?”

            “A child born out of wedlock, which is what you are in Fereldan eyes,” Duncan informed him gravely. “Some consider it shameful and in less chaotic times, you would have no right to the Mabari Throne regardless. But these are… chaotic times.”

            Alistair made a disgusted noise. “I have nothing to be ashamed of, Warden-Commander. It’s these lowlanders who would shame my mother, who stood against enemies most of them don’t realise how deadly and dangerous they are. If any shame’s in the affair, it should be to my father, who should have stolen my mother as was proper and knotted the rope while she sung to the Lady.”

            The warrior paused, suddenly troubled. “Unless my father was already married to another and their time wasn’t up?”

            “Maric had been widowed for a few years when he met your mother,” Duncan explained with a sigh, no doubt troubled by dirty laundry being aired for all the camp to hear.

            “Then he should have stolen Mother,” Alistair said firmly, folding his muscular arms. “The shame isn’t mine nor hers, but his.”

            Duncan, despite the gravity of the situation, smiled in tight amusement. “Your mother Fiona wasn’t a woman who could be stolen, lad. She gave to Maric willingly and both grew from the relationship, but unfortunately because she was an elven mage and he a King, it couldn’t be.”

            “Near as I knew, Maric wanted to acknowledge you, but things were pretty rocky in Ferelden and so he couldn’t,” Brytta added with as much gentleness as she could manage. “It was either the Avvar – Ramhold owed the Wardens one after we ended a siege up there – or the Chantry, in which case you’d be wearing armour, drinking lyrium and drooling like an idiot mabari by now.”

            Cu barked, pointedly reminding the dwarven woman that mabaris neither drooled nor were idiots. Alistair looked down at the hound and grinned tightly before woofing something in reply that made Cu bark again, happily this time.

            “I told him he was the smartest one around here,” Alistair told the perplexed Mara and Wardens. “From the sounds of it, I’m probably right.”

            Duncan sighed, rolling his dark eyes. “That’s why I was trying to hint at you to shut up when we walked into camp,” he admitted. “Teyrn Loghain’s daughter is Anora, who is Cailan’s wife, and she’s bearing the brunt of their childlessness.”

            “Even though Cailan’s had a dozen mistresses, practically has his own room at the Pearl, and knows every pretty single maidservant in the Palace who’s willing by her first name and birthmark, yet has fathered no kids,” Brytta added bluntly.

            Alistair shook his head in disbelief. “You lowlanders – barring the Wardens and Lady Cousland – are all insane.”

            Mara’s sense of humour briefly awoke to say, “Glad to see I’m not on the crazy list.”

            She glanced worriedly at the tent. “I suppose they’re arranging _my_ marriage too. Fergus can’t make a match, not so soon after Oriana’s death, so that leaves me the only coin he has to spend.”

            “Who’s the most likely candidate?” Brytta asked.

            “If it isn’t our fine Avvar Prince here, then it will be Teyrn Loghain,” Mara said glumly. She admired Loghain, she truly did, but the man was old enough to be her grandfather.

            Alistair smiled suddenly. “You’d sooner be stolen by me than him?” he asked, showing enough wits to at least ask the question in Old Alamarri.

            “I’d sooner be stolen by no one,” she retorted pointedly. “Unfortunately, I don’t have that choice.”

            Fergus emerged from the king’s tent, looking stormy, and strode towards the group. “Tyrdda’s Lady save me from fools,” he growled, muttering an old Alamarri oath. “The King’s forbidden me to take the Highever men north and reclaim our teyrnir.”

            “We need those men here,” Brytta told him bluntly. “I’m sorry, salroka, but darkspawn are worse than Howe.”

            “Most of Ferelden’s army is here and all we’re doing is playing sitting ducks for the horde!” Fergus told the Wardens grimly. “You can’t put all your eggs in one basket and Loghain won’t relent on allowing Orlesian forces to join us.”

            “Ask a Ciriane for a sword, best check for the poisoned needle in the grip,” Alistair observed dryly.

            “The Orlesian Wardens aren’t like that,” Duncan protested. “Fontaine leads them and with Blackwall and Clarel as her Warden-Constables, even the Empress knows better than to ask them to play politics.”

            “Cailan seems to think all is sunshine and roses with the Occupation barely thirty years past,” Fergus said flatly, his tone saying more than anything that the King was an idiot.

            Alistair folded his arms again. “The darkspawn are getting worse and even with the defences improved, the horde will eventually break through,” he pointed out. “You should point out that some of the army should fall back now and prepare for when they _do_ break through. Teyrn Loghain has never faced a siege by darkspawn before – he assumes they act as men do, flinching when asked to face sharpened spikes and terrible magics. But darkspawn are endless and they don’t flee.”

            Fergus regarded the Avvar warrior with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve faced darkspawn.”

            “Three sieges in five years. Ramhold is near Orzammar and an entrance to the Deep Roads. I was to be a Grey Warden and so the shaman and Thane made certain I knew how to order a battle against them.” Alistair shrugged modestly. “I am not the master of war Teyrn Loghain is, but I worry that he sees a danger to his daughter in my face and won’t listen to my words even though I have no wish to rule my brother’s Hold.”

            Fergus, now the rightful Teyrn of Highever, looked on Alistair with a certain level of respect. “Loghain _did_ listen to you about the defences, if only to tell Cailan that at least one of Maric’s sons had inherited a bit of the Saviour’s good sense.”

            Alistair’s eyes glittered dangerously. “I am _not_ a weapon to use against my brother, Teyrn Fergus. I think it is time my brother and I had words, so that he knows I will stand at his back as brothers should, and that the Teyrn knows he won’t use me as a whip to flay Cailan’s hide.”

            He took himself off to the tent, leaving Duncan staring at his back with a dropped jaw and Brytta grinning broadly. “That was pure Fiona, right there,” the dwarf laughed. “Oh to be the fly on the wall for _that_ conversation.”

            “You’ll get to see _her_ reaction when she finds out Alistair knows about his ancestry,” Duncan growled, which set Brytta off into greater gales of laughter. Apparently Warden-Mage Fiona was a very formidable woman.

            “If we survive Ostagar, that man might just be the support Cailan needs,” Fergus murmured softly to Mara. “Cailan’s declared he will be recognised as next in line and will get Amaranthine as his domain.”

            “Given that Amaranthine is in vassalage to us…” Mara said slowly, already knowing what was coming next.

            “Amaranthine will be your dowry, little sister. It was he or Loghain.” Fergus took a deep shuddering breath. “And I will be sending a request to Leonas Bryland when we are done at Ostagar for Habren’s hand in marriage once the year and a day for Oriana is over.”

            Habren Bryland was one of the most spoiled noblewomen in all of Ferelden. Mara barely managed to stifle the mourning keen in her throat at the sight of Fergus’ stricken face. But the Couslands were the Spears of the North and no matter how much it pained them, they would do their duty.

            At least Alistair didn’t look much older than her. It was cold comfort, but as the last of the laurel leaves crumpled in Mara’s hands under her tightened fingers, it was the only sort she could find.


	3. The Sons of Maric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for fantastic racism and self-esteem issues. Alistair is also pretty much saying what I wish I could say to Cailan and Loghain in DAO.

Cailan Theirin was in the middle of getting himself some wine – moving deliberately and gripping the bottle extra tightly to conceal the shake in his hands – when Alistair, the brother he’d never met, stormed into the tent and straight for Loghain, who was poring over a map of Ostagar. The Antivan wine, of cheap quality but strong and sweet enough to help the King sleep at night, slopped over his fingers as the big Avvar-raised warrior grabbed the Teyrn of Gwaren and _lifted_ him, silverite armour and all, to slam him into the expensive but ghastly wardrobe some Orlesian noble gifted him on the state visit to Jader two years ago.

            “My brother is your Thane and you his warleader! I will stand at his back as brothers should and you will not use me as a whip to punish him! _Is that clear?_ ”

            Alistair dropped Loghain, whose knees buckled as he clattered to the ground, but he caught himself with an outstretched hand before rising steadily, a mixture of admiration and anger in his expression.

            “Your brother is repeatedly unfaithful to my daughter and then does nothing to dispel the rumour that she is childless!” Loghain hissed through gritted teeth.

            “That is between Cailan and… Anora? When a woman is taken from her Hold, she joins her husband’s Hold and therefore must stand for herself. Cailan has shame to bear, aye, but your daughter should deal with it herself. I have a knife she can borrow if she wishes to cut Cailan for every woman he has lain with during their marriage time.” Alistair stepped back, brushing off his massive hands. “But if you felt Cailan would do a lousy job as Thane – or King – then you should have challenged him when Father died and taken the job yourself.”

            Loghain coughed, obviously winded by Alistair’s attack. “The Landsmeet… decides,” he rasped. “I spoke for Cailan because Anora was trained to rule, to cover his blind spots, and because Maric asked me to support his son. The challengers were the Couslands.”

            “Who lost and accepted it with good grace,” Cailan said, drawing that bright golden gaze in his direction. “Rendon Howe backed them for the kingship and… after Warden-Constable Brytta’s report on the size of the horde, I think Bryce Cousland would have been better to face this.”

            “So this Rendon Howe betrayed his own Thane because he couldn’t win him the power he wanted,” Alistair said slowly. “The Ciriane left their mark on the Alamarri indeed.”

            “Like acid etching steel,” Loghain agreed with another cough. “But then, Rendon did marry a half-Orlesian.”

            “And my uncle has a full Orlesian bride,” Cailan said pointedly.

            “And you rut like an Orlesian,” Loghain retorted.

            “I do hope so. They enjoy the finer things in life rather more than we Fereldans.” Cailan, as always, reverted to the quip which he knew would annoy his father-in-law. Anora held the power and Loghain had the army, leaving Cailan precious little to do but pretend to be a King. For some reason, the Couslands genuinely believed it and Fergus was trying to help even as his own family lay dead.

            “Enough!” Alistair’s roar rattled them both. “Cailan has wronged Anora and so Loghain has wronged Cailan. There’s a treacherous Thane to the north, the darkspawn to the south, and you two needle each other like two old Chasind huddled around a dying fire!”

            “Fuck you, the Chasind are too smart for that shit!” yelled Duncan’s half-Chasind recruit, obviously overhearing the conversation as he walked past the tent. The silk walls weren’t warded against eavesdropping, more’s the pity, so half the camp knew Cailan and Loghain couldn’t stand each other. “We’re all getting the hell outta the Korcari Wilds, not standing around yelling at each about who fucked who.”

            “I’m talking about Rat Clan, not Otter Clan!” Alistair retorted.

            “Alright, carry on yelling at those two fuckwits then,” the half-Chasind said cheerfully.

            Alistair returned his attention to a fuming Loghain and shamefaced Cailan. “You are my brother and I don’t want your throne,” the warrior said quietly, eyes glowing intently in the candlelight. “If I am a danger, I will stay with the Wardens because Hakkon knows they need someone who knows how to plan, not just fight. But you must stop fighting, both of you, because a Hold divided will fall to the darkspawn.”

            Cailan flinched beneath that gaze and the weight of his brother’s nobility. Maric should have kept Alistair because he obviously had the strength of will that the Saviour possessed and Cailan lacked, according to most of the Uasal Ard, Ferelden’s high nobility. Only the Couslands treated him like the King instead of a pretty ornament on the Mabari Throne while Anora kept the country going from the Lesser Mabari Throne.

            _And I bloody well failed them too, didn’t I?_ Cailan mourned bitterly. At least his plan, if Alistair agreed to it, might help offset some of the harm he’d done them by not protecting them properly.

            “Best thing that would probably happen is that I get tainted and join the Wardens while you become King,” Cailan answered with a bitter laugh. “Keep Anora as Chancellor – she is a fine ruler, better than I – and marry Mara Cousland. I know she’s cold, but she’s smart and like any Cousland, loyal to the point of idiocy.”

            Alistair’s rugged face – sharper, no doubt from his elven mother, but laced with more scars than anyone other than Loghain – flickered slightly with an unidentifiable emotion. “You are not keeping me with the Wardens?” he asked carefully.

            Loghain helped himself to the camp stool, obviously shaky from being rushed by Alistair. “I never expected Maric to have another blade on the rack,” he rasped harshly. “The other choice is to accept the sword the Orlesians offer, and that one comes with a poisoned grip.”

            “Duncan claims that the Wardens themselves aren’t poisoned but apparently they cannot leave without the Ciriane Empress’ approval,” Alistair said slowly. “But unless Ferelden is in danger of falling, better to not take the Ciriane’s blade by the hand, and if you do, wear a thick pair of gloves and look for the poisoned needle.”

            Loghain managed a brief bark of laughter. “There’s something of Maric in you after all.”

            Alistair regarded him quietly. “Warden-Constable Brytta says it is mostly my mother. When she explained I was the son of a high Fereldan noble, I thought you were my father and shocked to see me because I looked like my mother. Obviously I was wrong.”

            The Teyrn coughed once again and spat before speaking, finding his wind. “I thought Maric had returned to us dressed as an Avvar. He… disappeared, the ship he was on sank off Wycombe, and I spent two years trying to find him.”

            “Then he is lost to the sea and I will sing his name to the Lady of the Skies,” Alistair said with an odd note of regret. “It would be better if we had his bones for the Lady’s birds to pick, so his soul could go to the Lady and perhaps return anew, but since we don’t…”

            Cailan looked at his brother mournfully. “Father cast a large shadow and you’ve just come under it,” he said sadly.

            Alistair met his eyes with more compassion than Cailan expected. “You are not Maric and Teyrn Loghain shouldn’t be trying to make you our father. The Couslands would stand with you, and not just because they need your help in reclaiming their Hold. They see you, I think, as the King you are.”

            _Even if Fergus thinks I’m a royal idiot,_ Cailan thought sourly. Fergus was right, of course, but at least the Couslands didn’t say it outright like Loghain did.

            But Alistair had given him the opening Cailan needed. “That’s why, if you are willing, I would like you to marry Mara Cousland. Fergus has offered Amaranthine, the land that will be soon removed from Rendon Howe’s possession, as Mara’s dowry and you will rule as Arl. Mara’s cold and strange, I know, but she’s trained to rule and you know war where she doesn’t.”

            The Avvar looked troubled. “I don’t think she wants to be stolen as a bride,” he pointed out. “But she also said it was either me or Teyrn Loghain, and that she was the only coin her brother had to spend.”

            “I’ve no desire for a bride young enough to be my granddaughter,” Loghain rasped. “But Mara will do her duty even if it wounds her. I’ve seen it happen. I respect her for that.”

            “If she agrees, I will,” Alistair sighed. “And no matter how many knots I untie in the rope, I will do my best not to wound her.”

            “Marriages are generally for life down here,” Cailan told him, wishing that he and Anora could have followed the Avvar ritual. She deserved a better man than him. “But some of the villages still practice the old handfasting, which is much like the Avvar way. If Fergus won’t be insulted, I’ll suggest that option instead.”

            “He swore by Tyrdda’s Lady. Somehow I think he won’t be,” the Avvar-trained warrior said sagely. “I should speak to him, see what she likes. A man should bring his wife a gift she will like, after all.”

            He turned away, a bulk of fur and chainmail, and looked over his shoulder with a grin. “At least she’s not a redhead. Redheads always have brat children.”

            “Rowan _did_ have a touch of auburn in her hair,” Loghain said dryly, though without venom, as the warrior left the tent.

            “Did you love my mother or my father?” Cailan asked, wanting to see if the Teyrn was as raw as he felt right now.

            Loghain’s grey gaze, stark in its vulnerability, met his squarely. “I loved them both,” he admitted as he stood and collected his precious map, checking it for damage. “I feel as if Maric returned and took me to task for mistreating his son.”

            “ _He’s_ not Maric, _I’m_ not Maric, and I’m sick and fucking tired of being compared to Maric!” Cailan snapped. “I know I’m not the best husband to Anora, far from it, and I hope Alistair doesn’t give Anora his knife because I’ll bleed out if she cuts me for every woman I’ve cheated on her with. But I can’t live up to a legend and I’d really thank you to not make me try.”

            “How much of your adultery is because of my attitude?” Loghain asked.

            That wasn’t a question Cailan was going to answer. Instead he said, “Hopefully this marriage will get the pressure off Anora and I to have children. Maker knows we could both use it.”

            Loghain’s eyes narrowed but he nodded. “I suppose that’s true.”

            Cailan pulled off his wine-soaked gloves, tossing them into a corner for the laundry maid. “We should let the Revered Mother know she’ll be officiating over a wedding. Maker only knows how she’ll react when she finds out the groom is a heathen.”

            Loghain, never fond of Mother Eloise, smirked darkly. “I look forward to her reaction.”

…

Revered Mother Eloise, the senior cleric of the Chantry in the camp and the pick to replace Grand Cleric Elemina, went utterly purple in the face when Alistair offered a suggestion on how the Chantry could sing themselves up a new Maker and Andraste if one was gone and the other dead. Apparently when the spirit gods of the Avvar were banished or killed, the Avvar mourned for them and made offerings to attract a new one, who would often assume the form of the old one but with their own unique flair. To hear Maric’s Avvar son tell it, his native Ramhold lost their old patron god during the last darkspawn siege – a Spirit of Valour – and sung themselves a new god that was a Spirit of Endurance. To hear Alistair, the Avvar had ways of ejecting unwanted spirits – much like the Seers of Rivain – and thought that if the Circle knew of them, they wouldn’t need to be locked up.

            The fits the Orlesian Chantry would have on meeting the heathen alone was worth allowing this marriage to happen.

            What happened in Highever was horrific, Loghain agreed, but at least with the Couslands’ power blunted and them too busy to rebuild the teyrnir in time, Anora’s position was safe. Cailan thought them loyal to the point of idiocy but Loghain understood Bryce Cousland and knew that should the King fall, the Couslands would have stepped into the breach and relegated Anora to the teyrnir of Gwaren without a second thought. Fergus was much like his father, just without the man’s political credibility, and Mara was profoundly literal and not particularly ambitious.

            Alistair, at least, would understand the wisdom of keeping Anora as Chancellor if Cailan should fall – or be tainted and join the Wardens, as the boy so obviously hoped. Duncan and Brytta looked unhappy to be losing a recruit of Alistair’s calibre – on seeing Ser Jory and Daveth, Loghain understood why – yet they were also relieved the son of a friend would have a good ending to a story he didn’t write. It put Duncan’s relationship with Maric in a different light.

            When the ceremony was over, Fergus – a two-handed warrior – handing the Shield of Highever and the Cousland Sword to the shieldman Alistair after Mara had been given a dog-eared book with burn marks on its leather cover, Loghain approached the slightly dazed Prince. He was Maric reborn in features, though sharper and golden-eyed like his mother, and had many of Maric’s virtues even as Cailan mostly had Maric’s flaws. “If you and Mara would like a private tent, you’re welcome to borrow mine,” he announced. “Not much of a wedding gift, I know, but I didn’t exactly haul the Gwaren treasury here.”

            “Thank you, but Duncan and Brytta have already offered theirs,” the Prince responded. “If you would give me a wedding gift, listen to them. Neither may know strategy but they know darkspawn and what they do more than you.”

            Loghain growled a sigh but nodded. He’d ignored Duncan outside of patrol reports because while the man was a fine fighter, he was – as Alistair put it – shit at planning how to kill darkspawn. Brytta knew squad level tactics, a legacy of her days as a Carta thug, and refused to accept being ignored by anyone with the simple tactic of punching them in the stomach – but she still knew nothing of armies.

            “Thank you. If we can blunt the main force of the darkspawn here, some of the army can break off and prepare for incursions from the north, and incidentally deal with this Howe,” Alistair said gratefully. “My wife seemed to like the book well enough, but Howe’s head on a spike would make for a better wedding gift.”

            “I’m right here, you know,” Mara said acidly. She still clutched the book like it was a shield.

            “I know,” Alistair said, looking down on the diminutive Cousland girl. There was a full foot of height’s difference between them and Alistair probably weighed two and a half times what the slender, fine-boned rogue did. Thankfully, the Avvar didn’t ruffle her hair, which often happened to Mara in social settings because of her small size and huge eyes. It never amused the young noblewoman.

            “But you’re right,” Mara conceded, not particularly graciously. Loghain pitied her because she had essentially become a pawn in Fereldan politics. At least Alistair seemed kind enough and with his Avvar beliefs, wouldn’t cheat on her.

            The girl took a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with so we can return to saving Ferelden.”

            A twinge of hurt flickered across Alistair’s face as she walked away and Loghain took pity on him. “Mara’s… different,” he explained quietly. “She’s half-Tranquil. I don’t get exactly what it means beyond her having poor social skills, disliking being touched and not showing a lot of emotion, but she’s also very intelligent and focuses like no one else. They mostly become templars or join the Chantry, but when the Seekers asked for Mara as a child, the Couslands refused.”

            “So she’s like one of the Lady’s falcons,” Alistair said quietly. “Got it.”

            “Don’t put jesses on her or she’ll knee you in the balls,” Loghain advised dryly. “She fights dirty.”

            Alistair looked at him oddly, shaking his head, before heading to the tent which was probably barely big enough to fit him.

            Loghain sighed and headed for his own tent. He needed to send a letter to Anora and let her know what was happening, because dealing with Howe would fall to her. Damn Rendon for doing this now.


	4. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for fantastic racism and violence.

Alistair had been married before, knotting the rope for a laughing-eyed daughter of Red-Lion Hold named Eileen who he stole (with her full permission) from her brothers when Ramhold was trading under the stone gaze of Paragon Gherlen at the gates of Orzammar. The brothers chased them for a few miles before calling it off with a laugh, thanking him for taking their burdensome sister off their hands even as Eileen called them every name under the sun, affectionate warmth in her voice. The gods, knowing that soon he’d descend into the dark depths of the Deep Roads, made his hands tremble when unknotting the heavy rope, granting them two golden years of summer before their marriage was over. Eileen, always the practical one, already had a replacement husband lined up – the chief herdsman of Ramhold, an older man with three children who would welcome her warmth at night – and was pregnant with her first child when Duncan came for Alistair.

            Looking back, the so-called Prince wished Eileen could have met Cailan; her warm, easy manner brought out the man in the awkward youth Alistair had been and no doubt she’d have been charmed by the King’s easy charm. A woman in the summer of her years, full and ripe, with the confidence of one who knew her worth. When the season rites were performed, she would stand in the Mother’s place with the Maiden of the spring at her left hand and the Thane of the autumn at her right, facing the Shaman of Winter’s snows. When Thane Eirik returned to the Lady, it would be an even race between Eileen and Talesin, the Hold’s skald, to take his place.

            Duncan and Brytta’s tent was little bigger than the other Wardens, though in somewhat better condition and made from oiled silk instead of canvas. Since one would be planning the war with Loghain and the other taking Jory and Daveth into the Wilds for their Joining, it was the best place for his wedding night despite Loghain’s offer. The Teyrn was wary of Alistair, no doubt out of fear for his daughter Anora and her place, and so the warrior didn’t want to stay in his finer tent and make him uncomfortable.

            His eyes went to Mara, a slight figure in pale linen, as she lit a candle with shaking hands. If Eileen was the fullness of summer down to her wheat-blonde hair and sky-blue eyes, then the bride he had taken now was the winter when it was young, ash-blonde hair and a gaze the same blue-grey as a peregrine’s barring. Loghain had pointed out the Cousland woman’s resemblance to the Lady’s favourite falcon when trying to explain Mara and then made a tasteless joke about jesses. Avvar didn’t put jesses on their raptors, they returned or not as pleased them.

            “I’m sorry for saying what I said,” Mara said quickly, her voice hoarse. She sounded like Thane Eirik did after breathing smoke during the second darkspawn siege and if what Fergus, his new brother, said was true then it happened during the destruction of her Hold. “You had as much choice as I did in the matter.”

            “I could have gone to the Wardens and I think Duncan would have upheld my choice,” Alistair admitted, earning a sharp glance from his bride. “But Cailan has no one but the Couslands who treat him as King, so he needed me more.”

            “Fergus thinks you might give Cailan the confidence he needs,” Mara agreed with a sigh.

            “Loghain said your father challenged Cailan for the kingship after Maric died,” Alistair noted, curious to hear her take on the matter.

            “Rendon Howe, Arl Wulffe and the Banns of the North were troubled at the north and west of Ferelden not being represented at court to the extent that the east and south were, as well as Cailan being barely twenty and a somewhat sheltered, spoiled youth besides,” Mara confirmed softly. “They talked Father – _over_ my mother’s protests – into standing as a candidate. Queen Anora managed to sweet-talk the northern Banns into supporting Cailan while Loghain reminded Arl Wulffe of the debt he owed the Theirins. That left Father standing alone with only Rendon Howe at his back, so he conceded and was the first to pledge loyalty to Cailan.”

            “From the little I know, they should have made this Anora Queen,” Alistair pointed out wryly.

            “If she hadn’t been promised to Cailan as a child, Mother and Father would have done their best to match Fergus and Anora,” Mara said, shaking her head. “My parents were also trying to open Ferelden to trade possibilities – convincing the Free Marches and Nevarra that we were strong enough to withstand Orlais should Gaspard take the throne and invade again – and Loghain believes Ferelden should stand on its own.”

            “Gaspard… He is the Ciriane Empress’ cousin. When he was stationed in Emprise du Lion, the Holds in that area learned very quickly not to raid because he obliterated their warriors,” Alistair said softly. “The chevaliers are dangerous and you are wise to be worried about them.”

            The greater picture was quickly becoming clear to Alistair, the lowlanders each so focused on their piece of a broken mirror that they couldn’t put it together to see the trouble in its entirety.

            He turned around suddenly and began to shrug off his furs, unpleasantly heavy in this boggy place. “You should find a way to make Celene fight with Gaspard. He was meant to be Thane, but she stole the Hold from him, apparently.”

            “Celene’s the better option than Gaspard,” Mara said grimly. “Though I can bloody well imagine her price for sending chevaliers to Cailan’s aid.”

            “Put aside Queen Anora and marry _her_ ,” Alistair breathed, understanding the final piece in the puzzle. His brother, sorrowful to say, would be desperate enough to agree because of the short-term hostility of Loghain without thinking of the long-term trouble with the Ciriane.

            Mara stared at him, stunned that he understood it so quickly, and Alistair smiled down at her. “The Ciriane have tried to play the Avvar and Chasind against the Alamarri since the time of Teyrn Maferath,” he pointed out. “We are isolated, not idiots.”

            Mara’s mouth twitched in something that might be a smile. “Thank the Maker you’re smarter than the last Avvar I met,” she breathed.

            “If his name is Movran the Under, you’ll need to get in line to kill him,” Alistair told her. “And that’s only after Daveth and I humiliate him.”

            “Oh look, he’s an Avvar celebrity,” Mara said dryly.

            “No, he’s just famous for uniting lowlanders in their hatred of him.” Alistair unwrapped the last bit of fur, then dumped the chainmail shirt he wore.

            “That’s what a celebrity is,” Mara replied wearily.

            “Oh.”

            Things were awkwardly silent for a while as Alistair removed his leather jerkin and boots, finally just wearing his woollen tunic and breeches. Duncan and Brytta slept on a thick double-wide pallet of furs and what looked like quilted silk, a luxury Alistair would have killed for during his days raiding or tending the Hold’s flocks.

            “Cu’s guarding the outside,” Mara told him in little more than a whisper. “So no pranks from anyone.”

            “No one to know if we don’t have sex then,” Alistair said, laying down on the pallet. “I don’t force a falcon to fly and I won’t force my wife in bed.”

            Mara’s lips thinned, like she was preparing for a battle. “Cailan is counting on us having an heir. And with the news from the Wilds…”

            _“Mara will do her duty even if it wounds her,”_ Alistair recalled Loghain saying.

            She crept onto the pallet beside him, tense as a cocked crossbow, and Alistair sighed. “Have you never been married before?” he asked carefully.

            “I chose a man I thought might make for a good husband the day Howe betrayed my family,” Mara finally answered. “Dairren Loren. Not the highest-ranking of noblemen, but in line to a strategic bannorn in the south and he liked to read. He died in my bedchamber.”

            Her eyes were wide in the candlelight. “Because it wasn’t a formal betrothal – that was going to happen when Father returned from Ostagar – the year and a day mourning doesn’t apply. And if Fergus is going to set things in motion now, with his heart bleeding from the loss of his own wife and child, to marry Habren Bryland in a year and a day… How can I do less?”

            “Are you carrying his child?” Alistair asked gently. She looked like a wary falcon ready to take flight.

            “It’s too early to tell. His hair was redder and eyes a deeper brown than yours,” she murmured.

            “Then wait a few weeks and you will know,” Alistair told her softly. “I will tell Cailan – does your brother know?”

            “Yes.” Mara sighed, shaking her head. “I _liked_ Dairren. He was someone I thought I could be friends with, which is better than some marriages I’ve seen. But I’m more worried about how this could bollocks up the succession than mourning for him, which is horrible because he took an arrow meant for me.”

            Tears glittered in those overlarge eyes and he wiped them away with a thumb like caressing the neck-feathers of a newly fledged falcon. Knowing what he now did about bastards, Alistair imagined she was worried for the future of any child she had, especially if the Alamarri wanted to make trouble.

            “If you’re carrying this Dairren’s child, then I’ll raise them in my own Hold until they can claim their rightful one,” he promised quietly. “And if anyone calls them a bastard, that person will eat three feet of my steel.”

            Mara stared at him before bursting into tears again, Alistair holding her and allowing the pain to come out. To be the last of her Hold, fleeing the one who killed her family and no doubt intending to steal her to lay claim to it, and having to marry even though she mourned the man she should have wed – he could hear the pain in her voice… A woman who left her Hold for another became part of her husband’s Hold and so did her children if they weren’t left with the previous husband’s clan. That meant Dairren’s child would be his own and even if the Alamarri had different customs, the babe would still have the right to his father’s land in Alistair’s eyes.

            She fell asleep and he got his red-lion fur cloak to cover her before leaving the tent. Best to tell Cailan now.

            His brother was still awake, rumpled and bleary-eyed as he pored over some papers. “That was quick,” he noted in that light brittle voice, pouring Alistair some wine.

            “Nothing happened,” Alistair reported tersely, reporting what Mara told him.

            “Lady Cousland is ridiculously honest, even when telling the truth is a bad idea,” Cailan finally said with a sigh. “I know the Lorens – their colouring, reddish-brown hair and brown eyes, comes from intermarriage with the Guerrins – my mother’s people. If she’s pregnant, it means an heir can’t be conceived until she gives birth, though it proves fertility on _her_ part.”

            The King grimaced and downed some wine in a single gulp. “I always thought Dairren a bit of a milquetoast, but I suppose Mara and he both liked books well enough. In that slaughter, Rendon Howe made enemies of a dozen families in the Bannorn; some of them will align with the Couslands for vengeance and the rest blame the Teyrn of Highever for not protecting their kinsfolk fostered at or visiting the castle.”

            “I think you’d better send some of the army north, both to deal with this Howe _and_ spare some in case you’re overwhelmed here,” Alistair finally said.

            “You’re right, but who should I put in command? If I go, it looks like I’m running away. If it’s Loghain, he will take the army straight to Anora to protect her. If it’s Fergus, he’ll head straight for Highever. I can’t choose you because, well, I’ve just met you and no one knows your ability to manage an army.”

            “Duncan mentioned your uncle having men ready?” Alistair mused.

            “Uncle Eamon, yes!” Cailan grinned at Alistair. “He’s an experienced commander and Uncle Teagan could sweet-talk Empress Celene out of her petticoats. I can’t spare Loghain or Fergus, but I could send you and Mara to Redcliffe with… hmm…”

            The King paced around, rubbing his stubbled chin. “I’ll give you a thousand men, half horse and half foot. Uncle Eamon has a thousand soldiers of his own and if Fergus is going to enter a marriage contract with Habren Bryland – Maker have mercy on the poor bastard – then that could get Leonas’ Clayne heavy infantry on your side. That’s roughly twenty-five hundred men and at best, Rendon Howe fields fifteen hundred.”

            “Best count on him hiring sellswords,” Alistair observed. “Offer them the lands of the Thanes he dispossesses and many would come.”

            Cailan threw him a startled look and Alistair laughed sourly. “The Ciriane tried a similar trick with the Avvar when they took the Alamarri lands.”

            He then leaned forward, looking his brother in the eye. “I know Celene will only give you the sword if you marry her for it.”

            Cailan’s lips pursed. “She wanted to throw Ferelden’s strength against Nevarra,” he finally admitted.

            “I think if you agree to such a marriage, you will become a King short of a head,” Alistair said bluntly. “Even the Couslands would stand against you.”

            “You’re not bloody wrong,” Cailan agreed. “I was trying to get her to send two hundred chevaliers with the Orlesian Wardens as ‘a gesture of goodwill’ – and blunt them on the blades of the darkspawn. Let Orlais wear itself down against the Blight, I thought. But she wants my pledge, in writing, and if I even _thought_ of doing that Loghain would pike my head at the front of the camp while the soldiers cheer.”

            “Don’t play games with Ciriane or bet with Antivans. You’ll lose every time,” Alistair said, repeating a proverb he’d heard people use in the trade city above Orzammar.

            “I suppose you’re about to tell me I should let Loghain know?” Cailan asked.

            “Better coming from you than someone else,” Alistair pointed out.

            “Maker’s Breath, he’s going to kill me. If I die, you’re King.” Cailan squared his shoulders and prepared to walk out. “Nice knowing you if he does.”

            Alistair followed him to the Teyrn’s tent just across the path to make sure that didn’t happen. Loghain went as purple as the Chantry Mother had when Alistair innocently asked why she didn’t just sing up a new Maker if the old one wouldn’t listen… and then punched Cailan clean off his feet, a neat trick for a man with bandages around his torso from the cracked ribs Alistair gave him. He looked ready to punch the King again until Alistair stepped between them and Duncan grabbed the Teyrn’s arm.

            “Nothing has been agreed to,” the Avvar reminded the warleader, wondering why in the gods’ names he wasn’t just curled up with his wife getting used to her warmth and breathing.

            “Orlesians can read volumes out of anything,” Duncan said flatly. “Depending on the tone of Cailan’s letters – an inappropriate familiarity between two rulers, for instance – she could even claim pre-contract and invade Ferelden if it’s withdrawn.”

            “Might she be supporting this Howe?” Alistair asked.

            “Not directly – he’s _very_ anti-Orlesian – but I could see her stirring the pot through proxies,” Duncan answered grimly. “Orlais has added to its lands during a Blight before. That’s why as soon as we knew the archdemon had awoken, the Wardens of the south removed anyone who would play Orlesian politics from command positions and replaced them with foreigners and outsiders who wouldn’t do as the Empress ordered. Fontaine is half-Nevarran, Clarel is a mage and Blackwall hails from the Free Marches. My friend Riordan, Senior Warden of Jader, is half-Orlesian but his grandmother was a Cousland so he stands with Highever in these things.”

            “What did the First Warden have to say about that?” Loghain demanded harshly. “Isn’t he Orlesian?”

            “The Empress’ cousin no less,” Duncan confirmed. “We penned a letter that was essentially the Warden equivalent of ‘Fuck off and stay out of our business’. Actually, that was the postscript Brytta added under her signature.”

            Loghain grunted sourly and Duncan met his gaze. “Maric was _my_ friend too, my oldest one aside from Fiona, who oversaw my Joining, and Riordan with whom I took my Joining,” the Warden-Commander replied softly. “I promised I’d see Ferelden through the Blight as long as I could.”

            “And this is why Anora is supposed to be playing politics, not you!” Loghain said in disgust to Cailan, who’d managed to stand. “If the Orlesians invade…”

            Alistair rubbed the back of his neck. “I could see if some of the Holds could be convinced to close passes. The Ciriane occupation of the Alamarri lands did the Avvar no favours, that’s for certain.”

            “As much as I loathe interfering in politics, I could get Brytta to press her Orzammar contacts to do the same,” Duncan said dourly. “The Aeducans will only allow Wardens through at that point.”

            Loghain grunted again. “Maric would be heartbroken to know of your idiocy,” he growled to Cailan before stalking around the map. “When will your wife return with the Wardens, Duncan?”

            “By sunset tomorrow, I hope. I sent them to acquire treaties that were lost when we had to abandon the outpost there.” Duncan smiled ruefully. “You’d best hope I survive the upcoming battle, Teyrn. Imagine my wife as Warden-Commander and the Right of Conscription.”  
            The Teyrn shuddered and glared at Cailan. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

            “I’m dispatching a thousand of our troops with Mara and Alistair north to Redcliffe,” Cailan responded coolly despite the reddened mark on his cheek. “I can’t do without you or Fergus.”

            Duncan’s lips pursed. “I’ll send Daveth and Jory with you should they survive the Joining, Brytta if they don’t. If the Wardens fall here, they will be Ferelden’s last hope.”

            “Aye. The Warden who slays the archdemon dies in the doing of it, according to the old songs,” Alistair confirmed. At Duncan’s startled glance, he smiled. “The shaman and Thane Eirik didn’t want me to enter the Wardens blind, Duncan.”

            “I suppose that will put Eamon in charge of the army?” Loghain’s tone said it all. “I’ll dispatch Ser Cauthrien and half of Maric’s Shield with them in case something goes wrong.”

            The Teyrn sighed and pushed away from the map table. “It’s late and if I don’t get some sleep soon, I’ll just settle for killing Cailan and calling it a service to Ferelden. Alistair, can you make sure your idiot brother goes to bed? I imagine you’ll want to return to your wife.”

            No wonder Cailan lacked the confidence to play games with Orlesians. Alistair squeezed his brother’s shoulder before guiding him out of the tent, Duncan on their heels with an aggrieved expression.

            “Of all the bloody times…” The Warden-Commander shook his head. “Maker help us all…”

            He went for the Warden part of camp, leaving Alistair and Cailan alone.

            “Better for you that you told Loghain instead of being found out,” Alistair repeated, suddenly unsure of his advice.

            “Perhaps,” Cailan said desultorily as he rubbed his battered face. “Perhaps.”


	5. Despair's Crooked Claws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Mara woke up, wrapped in a magnificent red-lion fur cloak that would have fetched a fine price in Denerim despite (or because of) the Avvar bone totems sewn to its edges, and saw Alistair resting his head against the tent pole cursing every lowlander for a fool. “Am I one of them?” she dared to ask, voice cracking at the strain of speech, and the big man spun faster than someone the size of a small mountain should.

            “You and the Wardens are about the only ones here who aren’t,” he responded with a sigh before reporting what happened while she slept. Several pieces fell into place and it was all she could do to throw the cloak off, don her armour and march to Cailan’s tent to stab him for being five kinds of fool who destroyed her family.

            “My parents relayed some of those messages between Cailan and Celene because the King asked it of them,” she finally said bitterly. “Rendon Howe oversaw Ferelden’s military intelligence corps and no doubt intercepted one or two of them. My father was a decent enough politician when he had to be, but no master of the Game, and Cailan is… well, Cailan.”

            “Lowlanders weave more webs than a cave of giant spiders,” Alistair observed grimly. “If this happened amongst the Avvar, my brother would be removed as Thane and his wife, from the sounds of it, given the duty.”

            “Anora is a very good ruler,” Mara agreed softly. “But the agreement between Elethea Cousland and Calenhad Theirin which formed Ferelden also set the order of succession; the Mac Tirs, Anora’s family, stand behind the Couslands.”

            “If the choice was between keeping your Hold safe and well or some agreement from five hundred years ago, what would you do?” the Avvar asked, folding his arms. Out of his heavy chainmail and furs, he was only a little heavier in the torso than Fergus, not the hulking brute that most no doubt mistook him for.

            “Ferelden comes first,” Mara immediately replied. “Which is why the Theirin bloodline has zigzagged through the families and the Couslands supported whoever looked best for the kingdom.” She sighed. “Of course, interpretation of the agreement has changed from Teyrn to Teyrna, Queen to King.”

            “No doubt,” Alistair agreed with an ironic twist to his thin lips. “The last time we saw a mess like this was when Bhelen Aeducan married a noble hunter in Orzammar. The Ciriane were making bets on whether the Aeducans would be thrown out or not.”

            “But they weren’t, mostly because Brytta Brosca – Aeducan by her sister’s marriage – snuck into the Proving and kicked the arse of every challenger from day’s beginning to day’s end as dwarves consider such things,” Mara told him dryly. “Then when she was taken by the Carta for ruining their bets, she slaughtered her way out of their base and dumped the heads of the two main bosses at King Endrin’s feet, offering her apologies for missing Bhelen’s wedding and daring him to say otherwise.”

            The story distracted her husband from his thoughts about the present situation; Avvar liked a good saga of blood and battle against the odds. “What happened?”

            “King Endrin cut a deal with Brytta – she join either the Wardens or the Legion of the Dead and he would convince the Shaperate it was the will of the Stone that fresh blood – or that of a lost House, as it turned out Brytta and Rica are descended from Gherlen, the only casteless Paragon to exist – enter House Aeducan. Duncan was in town, snapped her up like a deepstalker eating a nuglet, and the rest is history.”

            “Don’t suppose she could sort out all our problems?” Alistair asked wistfully as Mara got out of bed.

            “Short of Conscripting half the Uasal Ard, no.” Mara grabbed her cloak as her armour was in Fergus’ tent. “So what’s the consequences of Cailan’s little scheme.”

            “We’re going north with a thousand soldiers, Ser Cauthrien and half of Maric’s Shield to join Arl Eamon at Redcliffe to both prepare for the army falling back from Ostagar and, under his command, bring Howe to justice,” Alistair promptly answered. “Fergus, Cailan and Loghain will be staying here.”

            “Makes sense, seeing as they’re Ferelden’s three most senior commanders and nobles in the field,” Mara said. “Ser Cauthrien is Loghain’s second and loyal to the man as a mabari.”

            “Of course. Loghain doesn’t trust Eamon because he’s married to a Ciriane and the other Arl we must speak to, Bryland, is half-Ciriane.” Alistair’s expression had truly set in grim lines. “Apparently Cailan’s attempts at politics mean that the Empress might be able to claim ‘pre-contract’ – whatever that is – and invade.”

            “’Pre-contract’ is an agreement to betrothal, only signed and sealed,” Mara explained quietly. “Father and Dairren’s mother Lady Landra would have signed one in the morning before they rode off; they wanted to see how we’d suit together, if that makes sense, and with Dairren heading to war as Father’s squire and me taking over Castle Cousland for a few weeks, it would have been enough to guarantee succession rights if I fell pregnant.”

            “Apparently being on first name basis with the Empress is enough to call it pre-contract, even if Cailan didn’t sign anything,” Alistair said heavily. “Even Duncan is furious over the matter.”

            Mara sighed disgustedly. “Once the line against the darkspawn is fortified, Cailan will likely face a Landsmeet to determine his fitness for King. The Banns, Arls and Teyrns raise monarchs and can depose them – if the freeholders and freefolk don’t like their choices, even the Uasal Ard can be deposed. A freeholder can, and has, risen to Arl – and even Teyrn, in Loghain’s case.”

            She wrapped the grey cloak around her, still smelling the subtle fragrance of the laurel soap the Couslands used. “I honestly don’t know how it would turn out. The Landsmeet may make Loghain or Fergus King, as while Anora can hold her own in combat, she’s a better administrator than general.”

            “Where does that leave us?” Alistair asked quietly, eyes worried. “I can always go to the Wardens, but I am told you’re no fighter.”

            “Not really. I fight like a rogue because I’m shit with swords,” Mara admitted ruefully. “And even then I’m a shit rogue.”

            She opened the tent flap to let in early morning light. “Our fate would depend on who becomes monarch if Cailan is removed from the Mabari Throne. Fergus is Teyrn of Highever, but the title would fall to me if it’s him; if Teyrn Loghain or Anora rule in their own right, then we’re still the Arl and Arlessa of Amaranthine, assuming we deal with Howe.”

            “What if Howe takes the Mabari Throne?” Alistair asked softly.

            “Then you will be dead and if I am lucky, so will I. If not, I will be Queen to his King if he doesn’t take Anora to wife.” Mara shuddered at the thought.

            “Can we ask Brytta to Conscript half the Uasal Ard?” Alistair asked seriously. “Then we get her to kill Rendon Howe.”

            “Duncan doesn’t like it when I play politics,” Brytta said dryly, popping up out of nowhere.

            “Neither do the Aeducans, I hear,” Alistair observed sardonically.

            The dwarf flashed him a grin. “You’re wasted as an Arl. Ever get sick of the diamond-castes, let me know and I’ll give you a short life of tainted awesomeness.”

            “Sure,” Alistair promised with a smirk. “We will return your tent to you now.”

            “Thanks. Things will be getting hairy around here soon and I want to give Duncan an Antivan Sandwich.”

            That was an image Mara didn’t need, so she stammered her thanks and left rather hastily, forcing Alistair to grab his things and follow.

            When Fergus got the news about Cailan’s scheme, he punched a hole through his portable wardrobe and swore before leaving his tent to snap orders at his men. The King might be the Couslands’ liege lord and now Fergus’ brother-in-law, but that wouldn’t stop the Teyrn of Highever’s voice being lifted against him at the Landsmeet unless Cailan pulled off a miracle.

            When he returned, he took Mara aside after she donned her armour and packed her few belongings. “Ignore Highever and take Amaranthine. I want Delilah and Thomas Howe in custody and Rendon denied the support of his Arling.” Then he pulled off his signet and gave it to her. “You’re acting Teyrna of Highever now, little sister, until I return from Ostagar. Half our Bannorn think you’d do a fine job of it, half-Tranquil or not, because you know so much.”

            Mara’s fingers closed over the ring like despair’s crooked claws. “Fergus-“

            “Hush, pup.” His face was hard as stone. “It’s up to you, Mara. I’ll honour any bargain you make, so long as it isn’t with Howe.”

            “What if that means a Mac Tir sits on the Mabari Throne in their own right?”

            “Then that means we either have Ferelden’s greatest general or an able administrator in charge,” Fergus replied tersely. “Watch your back with Eamon and try to stay on Cauthrien’s good side.”

            Mara nodded glumly. She couldn’t even save Mother and Father, yet Fergus was handing the teyrnir over to her, possibly forever if he fell at Ostagar?

            Fergus gave her a quick hug. “I’ll try to stop Loghain and Cailan from killing each other.”

            “I’ll try to keep Alistair alive. He’s a good man stuck in a bad situation,” Mara told her brother. “He knows about Dairren and said he’d raise any baby as his.”

            “Good, I’d hate to have to kill him,” Fergus said, not even joking. His patience was well and truly worn thin with the Theirins.

            “Come back, please. I can’t save Ferelden on my own.” Mara wasn’t joking either. She really couldn’t.

            “I’ll try, sister,” Fergus said sadly. “Pike Howe’s head for our family.”

            “I’ll try.” She hugged him again and left. Alistair sounded like he wanted to ride out in a hurry.

            It took the rest of the day for the force to be ready to leave. Daveth rode with them on a half-dead horse, face a little more grim than it had been when she last saw him. “Jory got to see his missus sooner’n he thought,” was all the half-Chasind said.

            Ser Cauthrien, who commanded the foot portion of Maric’s Shield, marched up to them. She was a tall, rangy woman with dark hair and keen eyes, descendant of the Clayne judging by her pale skin and skill with a two-handed sword. “I have been forwarded to your command until Arl Eamon takes over,” she told Alistair and Mara. “Any orders?”

            Alistair, who also chose to walk because there wasn’t a damn horse in the camp big enough for them, nodded brusquely. “I know how Avvar and darkspawn make war, but little of how lowlanders do,” he admitted quietly. “My speciality, I suppose, is siege warfare. I cannot assume that everything will go to plan, so I must learn from the warleaders of the Alamarri. Teach me.”

            Cauthrien’s eyebrow shot up and a flash of emotion brightened her eyes. “Teyrn Loghain said you had some of King Maric’s good sense. We’ll need it in coming days… Avvar? Reaver or berserker?”

            “Reaver,” Alistair replied quietly. “Killed a dragonling when I was fourteen and drank its blood.”

            Cauthrien nodded. “I’m what the lowlanders call a Champion, as is Teyrn Loghain. It’s a popular choice amongst the Uasal Ard and their commanders because we stand our ground and inspire the men.”

            The knight looked at Mara and raised an eyebrow. “Half-trained rogue here,” the youngest Cousland confessed. “I have some training in siege and squad warfare, but most of my military knowledge comes from the history books.”

            “You survived Highever, Lady Cousland. That means you know when to retreat.” Cauthrien sighed and looked to Daveth.

            “Warden, cold tracker,” was the half-Chasind’s response.

            She nodded once again and turned towards the gates. “It’s a three day march to Lothering and then four days to Redcliffe, Prince Alistair. If we’re to outrun the horde, we need to move now.”

            “Then give the order, Ser Cauthrien. We march. May the gods watch over us and those we leave behind.”

            Mara looked over her shoulder as the army began to move. If the worst happened, their force might be the last hope Ferelden had.

            Maker watch over them all.


	6. Better to Burn Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mention of suicide, animal cruelty, death and violence.

Brytta could hear the drumming of the darkspawn’s feet against the Stone, the marching song of the archdemon in her blood, and the Deepstalker of the Dark waiting to swallow her whole by the end of this battle. Not for her a quiet end, coughing up the last of her tainted blood in a dark hole deep beneath the sky, but the thrill of pitting herself against big ugly things and killing them or dying in the process. Years of poverty, alcoholism and violence had already shortened her lifespan before the Joining took the rest of it – but what was it the Orlesian bards said? ‘Better to burn out than fade away’, or something like that.

            Duncan’s face, carved and worn as one of the weathered wooden statues Daveth used to guide them to Griffin’s Rock deep in the Wilds, was impassive as Loghain gave the last of the orders. The remaining force had been divided into three, Wardens scattered amongst their number like petals beneath a parade’s feet, under the command of the Teyrn of Gwaren, the Teyrn of Highever and King Cailan, which was to say one third of the force would be useless. Hence Loghain putting the golden-haired King in charge of the reserves that would break off and run when the taint hit the windmill, because even when having all the right in the world to gut his son-in-law, he would keep his promise to Maric to keep the little shit alive. Cloudheads had too little blood to think things through, especially when they wore heavy armour, and Loghain wore more than most – and he was one of the more sensible diamond-castes topside.

            “I gave Daveth the recipe and ingredients for the Taint Cocktail,” she murmured into Duncan’s ear.

            “Maker help us all,” her husband responded with an echo of his usual dry humour.

            “He’s smarter than he looks,” Brytta assured him. After all, she’d spent six months grooming him for Conscription. Duncan needed a successor and who better than someone who could have been him as a kid?

            “That’s what scares me,” Duncan said ruefully as Loghain looked in their direction.

            “Can your mage light the beacon?” the Teyrn asked harshly.

            “He can,” Duncan confirmed. “Brytta-“  
            “Don’t you fucking dare,” she interrupted. “I won’t be kept from the battle, Duncan. You should go with Jowan just in case shit gets fucked up.”

            How could she tell him, the man who had raised her from the Dust and who carried the red diamond shards of her heart in his hand, that she was already dying? No, better to burn out than fade away.

            Duncan got that stubborn set to his bearded jaw which promised trouble, but Brytta stared him down. She had nothing to lose but it would kill her to outlive him when she was a dead Duster walking.

            “Fine,” Duncan grated. He picked her up and gave her a passionate kiss, which was kind of awkward when a couple soldiers made rude noises, then set her down again. “You better survive this or I’ll… use your ogre-skull washbasin for a pisspot.”

            _Looks like you’ll be shitting in an ogre’s skull,_ Brytta thought sadly as she lied to him for the first and last time, making a promise she could never keep.

            Jowan, a pale squirrely blood mage they rescued from Kinloch Hold because fuck the templars, took a deep breath and nodded. “I can do this,” he announced. “Just get me there, Duncan.”

            “I will,” the half-Rivaini rogue promised.

            It was time to get into line. Brytta took her place by Loghain’s side, the Teyrn of Gwaren grim-faced in the rain that began to fall, as if the Avvar Lady of the Skies already wept for those who would die tonight. She was never one for theology, figuring that the Ancestors owned what was underground, Korth the Mountain-Father the topside of the Stone, and the Lady the rest. The Maker was a flaming bag of tainted dicks for inflicting darkspawn on everyone because some Tevinter mages did a break and enter on his house, so fuck him and his Chantry.

            Torches announced the arrival of the darkspawn, the susurration of the archdemon’s commands slithering through Brytta’s mind. _“Take the golden king and the silver general,”_ it whispered. _“Kill every one of the Wardens, but most especially Dark-Skin and Blood-Hair.”_

 _Nice to know I’m on the top of the archdemon’s shit list,_ she thought wryly as some poor bastard stepped back in fear, only to hit Loghain and look over his shoulder. The general nodded in encouragement and he gulped, falling back into place.

            “Heads up, the alphas are gonna come for you, me and Duncan, and Cailan,” she told the Teyrn. “If you feel your blood burning, slit your throat. Warden-Mages believe that the darkspawn have a hive-mind, so everything ghouls know, they do.”

            Loghain’s eyes narrowed and he nodded before he gave the signal for the archers to fire.

            From three sides, flaming arrows descended upon the tainted horde like stars falling from heaven, taking out the monsters. Thrice more Loghain gave the command, thinning out the front rows of the horde before they ran out of ammunition. Then it was time for the catapults, aimed at the ogres. The big blue bastards responded with boulders, taking out portions of the bridge over the chasm which divided Ostagar.

            “Hounds!” Cailan yelled, his voice high with fear as he saw the magnitude of what they faced. Shame he hadn’t known that fear earlier, he might have made better preparations.

            The mabaris surged forward to die on spears and tainted blades, the Fereldans wincing at their yelps and whimpers. Brytta stood firm though, knowing that men would die in a few minutes.

            “Stand!” Loghain commanded. He held the centre while Fergus Cousland would strike, hammer to their anvil, when the beacon blazed. Cailan would (hopefully) engage when the horde was fully committed to hit them from behind.

            The horde hit within twelve heartbeats, the core holding as Brytta began her last dance. She left dismembered darkspawn in her wake, laughing wildly as she let the battle rage take her.

            So caught up in her fighting was she that she almost missed the whisper of the archdemon. An ogre pushed through, shoving hurlocks and genlocks out of the way, drooling as it barrelled straight for her.

            “I bathed in your brother’s skull!” she screamed, backing up before taking a running leap, knives at the ready. She landed on its broad blue chest, daggers like climbing spikes dug into rank flesh, and began to drag herself up to its throat as it roared in pain.

            She made it, thick black blood spilling out over her like a scalding bath of taint, but one of the ogre’s massive hands grabbed her, throwing her down. A stomp of its foot broke her back but didn’t quite finish her; she rolled over, looking at the stars, and coughed up blood.

            A hurlock in tainted bronze armour looked down at her, smirking, and got a thrown knife in the eye for its trouble. She then rolled back onto her stomach and began to claw her way towards Loghain.

            The Teyrn of Gwaren was beset by three alphas, holding them off with sword and shield, but a fourth was about to jump him. Brytta threw her last dagger, catching it in the low of its back, before collapsing from blood loss.

            With the last of her strength, she half-rolled over and looked towards the Tower of Ishal, where the beacon would be lit. As her eyes darkened, the last thing she saw was the golden blaze of fire, and she let herself go because at least Duncan would outlive her.

…

Morrigan hovered over the battle, watching in awe as the ogre collapsed on the Warden who killed it. She had met that one, a dwarven woman more potent than the males who accompanied her, the one who had earned Flemeth’s respect with a show of manners and more insight than expected from her uncouth demeanour. Her mother already went to the Tower of Ishal, to save the two Wardens there, and commanded Morrigan to watch the battle in crow form.

            She saw a man in silverite armour fending off two hurlocks and a younger man in golden armour, finer than the first, cutting through an ogre’s arm like it was nothing. From the little she knew, gilded armour meant important, which generally meant powerful, so she swooped in and cast Blizzard, freezing the ogre solid. Taking on human form, she dodged as the blond man shattered it with a single blow of his greatsword, looking at her oddly.

            “’Tis not the time to stare!” she snapped. “You are losing the battle!”

            He gawked for a moment longer, forcing her to use lightning to save his life from an emissary, before grabbing his horn and blowing it. Satisfied – as she lacked the strength to take on a form that could fly and carry him – she took to the air as a raven.

            The beacon, obviously some kind of signal, blazed yet the force on the eastern side waited, hesitating, before falling back at the command of their blue-armoured leader. A wise decision, one that would save many warriors to fight another day. She looked over her shoulder and saw the horde surge forth to overwhelm the silverite warrior’s force.

            The battle was over, so she headed towards the Tower. No doubt her mother could use her help.

…

“Fall back!” Loghain rasped as he realised Fergus Cousland wasn’t going to join the battle and Cailan had sounded the retreat. “Fall back!”

            The ragged remnants of his force were pushed back to the Tower of Ishal by the endless darkspawn, not a Warden left standing amongst them. Caught between the chasm and the horde, they were easy prey… until a dragon, purple-maroon with scarlet edges to her scales, swooped down and burned them away. In her claws were clutched Jowan and Duncan, both bloody and battered, as she rose to the sky again and soared away.

            “Fall back!” Loghain ordered, Maric’s Shield doing so. Aveline Vallen, a loyal officer despite her Orlesian name, turned around and barked orders to the stragglers of the regular army. Wisely, they joined with Maric’s Shield in a shield-wall, Loghain at the centre.

            His blood didn’t burn through some miracle but he knew the darkspawn would come for him, as was Brytta’s warning. She had died saving him from that ogre. “They’re coming for me!” he told Aveline.

            “So get out of your bloody armour!” she roared back.

            A woman of good sense, almost matching Cauthrien. Loghain hoped that Cauthrien could keep Anora alive if Rendon Howe won.

            He couldn’t fault Fergus Cousland for falling back. In his position, Loghain would have done the same. Necessity forced him to unbuckle his cuirass and distinctive pauldrons, letting the taint-scarred silverite fall to the ground. The rest would have to wait.

            Aveline handed him a quilted leather jacket, which he hastily tied closed, as the darkspawn began to turn in their direction. “Fall back,” he commanded for the third time. “We can’t save whoever’s out there.”

            As he retreated, he found himself hoping that Cailan wouldn’t survive. Maric and the Maker forgive him, but he was done with the spoiled brat whose actions threatened Ferelden. He would need to protect Anora now and pray that Alistair and the Couslands knew she’d make a fine Queen.

            _I’m sorry, Maric,_ he mourned as he began to run from a battlefield where Ferelden lay broken and betrayed through the foolishness of the Uasal Ard. _I failed you, yet again._


	7. Lord of the Slaughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death and violence.

The first day out of Ostagar, Alistair ordered that the entire force of soldiers under his command turn the grove of swamp-willows they camped in into sharpened stakes that would bend but not break under the weight of the darkspawn when they came. The soldiers grumbled but obeyed, each one creating an improvised staff-spear that was carried through the day and planted into the boggy soil at night as temporary fortifications. One of the soldiers, a muscular young man with messy dark hair named Carver Hawke, set up the two entrances – always have two ways to leave a Hold – with caltrops and mourned their lack of a mage to set what he called ‘mage mines’. From the little Alistair inferred from his terse speech, Carver had shaman-born – called ‘apostates’ amongst the lowlanders if they weren’t in the Circle – in his close kin and one of them excelled at this sort of magic.

            “If your kin will join us, I think I can keep the Chantry off their backs,” Alistair told the warrior as they both dug a latrine within the spear-wall. “We need shaman-born and apparently none could be spared from the main force.”

            “Don’t send Beth to the Grey Wardens,” Carver said, flushing that his inferences had been discovered. “She’s… gentle. Know what I mean?”

            “Gentle won’t last long during a Blight but I’ll do what I can,” Alistair promised quietly.

            “She’s been Harrowed. Father was a Circle mage before he went apostate and…” Carver’s hands tightened on the shovel. “I’m trained as a templar. I had to stand over Garrett, my arse of a brother, and Bethie when they were Harrowed.”

            “What is ‘Harrowed’?” Alistair asked.

            Carver explained that when Circle shaman-born came to a particular point in their training, they were put into the Fade to prove they could resist a demon which had been called. His father Malcolm had wept to do it but it was the only way they knew how to make sure Garrett and Bethany could resist evil spirits. Alistair, the more he heard about the Circles, grew disgusted with the Chantry. The Avvar had very few abominations, as possessed mages were called, and of those the ones who remained tended to be taken by good spirits. Even so, they were still watched by the auger, who knew the rites that would drive unwanted spirits from the shaman-born’s body… or could call upon the gods to strike down those who became dangerous.

            Alistair explained all of this to Carver as they dug, the slightly younger warrior’s chiselled face turning thoughtful. “Bethie would be happy in the Circle, so she can use her magic without being scared, but if there was a way to keep her out…” His musings were cut short as Ser Cauthrien, Loghain’s second, walked up to them.

            “Warden Daveth just told me the darkspawn have attacked Ostagar,” she said tersely.

            “Then tell the soldiers to pray to their gods that the army there will win,” Alistair said, laying down his shovel. “I will make offerings to Korth Mountain-Father and Hakkon Wintersbreath to make it so.”

            Most of the soldiers were at least Andraste-worshippers in name, though a few of the elvhen irregulars and servants worshipped the Evanuris (what little they knew of them, which was hardly more than what Alistair knew) and there were three Chasind scouts, not including Daveth, who would join him in the Avvar rites. The folk of the mountain and the bog worshipped many of the same gods, after all, gods that had been discarded in favour of the absent Maker and his human shaman-bride Andraste. The Avvar had… opinions on Andraste, who fought for faith where Teyrn Maferath, her mortal husband, had fought for home. Her courage and conquests were recognised but… only the heretics at Haven, once known as Ladyhold, worshipped her and her god amongst the Avvar.

            Cauthrien knew when to pick her battles; as a veteran soldier, she didn’t care what gods a person worshipped so long as their weapons were sharp and they took orders well. She nodded and gestured to the west. “Daveth did some hunting earlier, kept the fat and bones for the rites.”

            “Glad to know,” Alistair replied. “I’m no auger or Sky Watcher, but I would feel easier if I could do the rites.”

            They walked back towards the centre of the camp where Mara oversaw the preparations for the evening meal. Since the revelation of Cailan’s foolishness, his wife had grown pale and withdrawn, a falcon watching the skies around her for predators.

            “Would it kill you to attend a Chantry service or two?” Cauthrien asked quietly as they passed by the two clerics holding a service. The man and woman, apparently married in something called a chaste marriage, knew something of herbs and healing – a good thing or Alistair would have thrown them out. “You’re going to be controversial enough.”

            “The gods of the Avvar were once the Alamarri gods too,” Alistair reminded her. “And until Calenhad united the tribes of the lowlands into Ferelden with the help of the Chantry, the Maker was worshipped alongside other spirits.”

            “Sunday is the Maker’s Day. Whatever you do with the rest of the week is your business,” Cauthrien observed dryly. “At least that’s how it is amongst the blood of the Clayne.”

            “I will go when I must but so long as I can worship the true gods in tandem,” Alistair conceded with poor grace. “Openly, not in hiding and fear.”

            “That’s good enough for me,” Cauthrien finally said. “If you prove yourself to the Uasal Ard, most of them wouldn’t care if you worshipped a desire demon so long as you held your own in the Landsmeet and battle, and the freeholders care only that you protect them and not abuse your power.”

            “I hope that Arls Eamon, Wulffe and Bryland are wiser than most of the Uasal Ard outside of my kin have shown themselves to be,” Alistair noted dryly. “I respect Teyrn Loghain as a warleader, but he gravely mismanaged my brother in trying to make him another Maric.”

            Cauthrien’s lips pursed. As a loyal second to her Thane, she disliked him being criticised, but she also knew that Alistair was right. “If Maric had just _died_ instead of vanished, it would have been a clean cut – an amputation – that would have healed eventually in my lord,” she finally admitted. “But the disappearance of the King is just… it’s like a limb that’s been tied off and left to turn gangrenous, but Teyrn Loghain still has to use it because he can’t be without his sword-arm. Cailan’s haunted by his father’s shadow and Anora is generally treated like shit – pardon the language – by the Uasal Ard because _she_ became Queen where their precious daughters didn’t.”

            Alistair nodded. “Anora sounds like she would make a good Thane,” he agreed. “Even Cailan has admitted she’s a better ruler than he. It is hard that they cannot work in harness as a marriage should, and worse that the marriage can’t end as Avvar ones eventually do. My brother has charm and energy, a restlessness best served by riding the boundaries of the Hold and speaking to the clansfolk, whereas from the sounds of it Anora is best in the clan-hall, judging fools and getting them to dance like Ciriane jesters.”

            The knight stared at him before laughing, drawing the attention of several people, including Mara and Daveth. “You know, Prince Alistair, you certainly have a way of looking at things,” Cauthrien observed with a final chuckle, shaking her head. “As much as I serve my lord Loghain, I was never blind to King Maric’s faults the way he is. Maric was wise enough to delegate what he couldn’t do to those who could, but sometimes he just dumped things on people so he didn’t _have_ to do anything but smile and wave.”

            “Like Cailan?” Alistair asked cautiously.

            “Not… exactly. Cailan’s… young and enthusiastic. Spoiled and a bit lazy, but he genuinely wants to _do_ , which led to his idiocy with the Empress.” Cauthrien sighed. “But Anora was running things by the time King Maric vanished and, for all of her virtues, she doesn’t like to relinquish power. And every time Teyrn Loghain looks at King Cailan, he sees someone who can’t live up to the memories of King Maric and Queen Rowan that he had but since he promised them both he’d take care of their son, he’s trying to shoehorn Cailan into a mould he doesn’t fit.”

            Alistair echoed her sigh. Truly, his kin had made a rod for their own backs. “What do you think of the Couslands?” he asked tentatively. “So long as you mean no harm to them as they are my marriage kin…”

            Cauthrien paused, looked at Mara who was watching them with that wide falcon-stare as she peeled roots for dinner, and sighed again. “Fergus, I fear, will be the one who calls the Landsmeet to remove Cailan from the Mabari Throne. As a freeholder, I can’t _fault_ him, but the Couslands almost became rulers five years ago and it was by a very narrow margin they didn’t. If Bryce Cousland was alive, I would trust in the man’s good sense to keep Queen Anora as Chancellor and make Cailan the Arl of Denerim or some such. But while Fergus has experience in war, he has little experience as a ruler – and with the gloves off in a civil war, I fear for how he will act.”

            The knife bit deep into the roots as Mara peeled them. “My brother and I still recognise Cailan as King,” she said flatly. “And if the Landsmeet chooses Teyrn Loghain or Anora as ruler in their own right, at least Ferelden will be ruled by a competent general or administrator.”

            “That is some relief, Lady Cousland, and I assure you that _everyone_ wants Howe’s head on a pike for what happened at Highever,” Cauthrien said carefully. “I… never meant to imply disloyalty. The Couslands have their faults but to the best of my knowledge, they’ve never betrayed Ferelden.”

            “My family has been loyal to the Theirins to the point of idiocy at times,” Mara answered. “When King Vanedrin was killed by the Orlesians, Teyrn Ardal died in the shield-wall defending him, leaving his inexperienced daughter to hold Highever as Teyrna – and wind up bearing a bastard to an Orlesian chevalier.”

            “And King Arland was nearly overthrown by Teyrn Mather the Red and Sophia Dryden before Mather’s head was put on a silver platter with an apple in his mouth,” Cauthrien countered, though not harshly. “Arland was a right bastard, everyone agrees, but…”

            “No one ever expected Maric to just up and die. He was in his fifties, still healthy and in his prime,” Mara said bitterly. “And then we pissed away a full year before he was declared dead, leaving Cailan in limbo. Now, during a Blight, we reap what our lack of preparation has sown.”

            Alistair knelt and touched his wife’s shoulder to convey his sympathy. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain,” he murmured in Old Alamarri.

            She shook her head, lips pursing. “It was a fair question. And I’m interested in Ser Cauthrien’s honest opinion of me.”

            She said it in modern Fereldan, watching the knight with that focused unblinking stare.

            The knight met those blue-grey eyes unflinchingly. “I think you’re doing the best you can,” Cauthrien finally answered. “You see your duty and don’t even flinch from it. I don’t get the Half-Tranquil business but I respect your courage.”

            “Thank you,” Mara said as she looked down.

            “We will come to Lothering tomorrow,” Alistair said, changing the subject. “What should I do then?”

            Cauthrien looked relieved to share her knowledge of taking an army to a friendly village where they could resupply and gather able-bodied soldiers for the march to Redcliffe. The tenseness in her voice indicated that she was trying to distract herself from knowing battle was engaged at Ostagar, wondering if they would be Ferelden’s last hope.

            She got to the point where Alistair broached the subject of ‘apostate’ shaman-born joining their ranks and to the Deep Roads with the Chantry’s opinion when Daveth suddenly sat up, eyes wide.

            “Darkspawn comin’!” the half-Chasind yelled. “Get to it or you’re ghouls!”

            They had barely enough time to go for their weapons before the boggy ground on either side of the camp erupted with hurlocks making their wordless taunts. Alistair and Carver took one entrance of the camp while Cauthrien and Daveth took the other, Mara ordering the non-combatants into the centre with her as she readied a dwarven crossbow for firing.

            Alistair’s fortifications, including the seemingly random stakes sharpened at both ends planted throughout the interior of the spear-wall, forced the darkspawn to emerge mostly outside of the camp. That meant the soldiers could use the willow-spears to hold them off, archers thinning the horde while the odd crossbow user focused on the heavily armoured alphas. There were no ogres, thank Hakkon and Korth.

            The fortifications, flimsy as they were, eventually breached when the weight of hurlock bodies snapped even the flexible willow stakes in two – but even that provided its own defence as the horde tripped over the scattered corpses of their own brethren and some of the soldiers pulled stakes out of darkspawn to throw as makeshift javelins. Men died but more darkspawn fell, Alistair vowing that if they survived this, he would never skimp on rites again _and_ make certain he had a few shaman-born with him.

            A hurlock alpha, armed with a broad shield that looked like tainted dwarven-work, punched through the lines straight for the centre where Mara and the non-fighters were. Alistair felt time slow to the drip of cold-thickened honey from a wooden spoon as it grinned nastily, his wife struggling to reload her crossbow.

            She flung the useless weapon at it, the wood and steel construction hitting the shield, and the darkspawn instinctively flinched. Then she grabbed the knife she’d been peeling roots with, balanced it between two fingers and a thumb, and threw it in the moment between the alpha flinching away and its shield returning to a defensive position. The curved weapon, iron so ordinary it wasn’t even polished, buried itself in the left rotting orb that was the darkspawn’s eye and slew it instantly.

            The servants and clerics cheered, grabbing burning brands and flinging them at the darkspawn until between the fire and the soldiers, the beasts were exterminated.

            When the slaughter was over, Alistair leaned on a borrowed spear – the Cousland Shield broken in two by a hurlock’s greatsword and the sword lost somewhere in the carnage, and observed the damage done.

            A full fifth of the force he led from Ostagar were dead, two hundred men in total, and another hundred wounded or tainted beyond saving. Carver Hawke and Ser Cauthrien were both stricken with the Blight but Daveth swore he could make them Grey Wardens unless they wanted the clean mercy of a sharp knife. One of the Chantry clerics was dead and three elvhen servants too, Mara laying their cloaks over their faces and singing their hymns to the dead in a hoarse voice.

            A third of his force lost to darkspawn and they hadn’t even reached Lothering. A bitter victory, if victory it was.

            Carver and Cauthrien chose the Joining and survived, joining the survivors in burning the dead as best they could. Even the Avvar burned the Blight-dead, for the Lady’s birds couldn’t cleanse that taint.

            The surviving cleric held the Chantry funeral rites for those who wanted such things, the Chasind scouts – and Daveth – joining Alistair as he sang the dead to the Lady of the Skies. Dawn came in a slow creep of bloody light, promising a storm later on in the day, as the last pyre was lit by a shaken Mara.

            Alistair took his spear, a rough-carved weapon of willow wood, and leaned on it as he addressed the soldiers. “I know you want to rest. But we must march to Lothering, to beat the darkspawn there. This was the first taste of the Blight… and we spat it out back in the archdemon’s face. Let the tainted dragon chew on it! Our brethren in Ostagar will live or die as the gods decree – may Korth and Hakkon grant them victory! – yet our work remains undone. Pack up and move out. In war, you pray for the dead and look to the horizon, and so must we.”

            He didn’t expect cheers. The Alamarri worshipped Andraste and her Maker, and for all Alistair’s willingness to at least give the Chantry a polite nod – mostly for the sake of his marriage – he was Avvar to the bone. He expected mutters of agreement, glares as he forced the weary soldiers to push past their limits, perhaps even arguments.

            What he didn’t expect was one of the Chasind to start smacking his hide buckler with a willow spear, as warleaders were greeted, and the beat slowly taken up by the rest of the soldiers. Even the elvhen servants banged knives and kettles or slammed the butts of their spears into the ground. Everyone, even the Grey Wardens and Mara, were drumming as the tribes did when they were one people marching to war.

            “I name this man Tiarna na Marú,” his wife called out, smoke-hoarse voice still carrying over the sound of clashing weapons. “Lord of the Slaughter. Who says aye?”

            “AYE!” roared the soldiers – even Cauthrien, even Carver – and it was a taunt to the darkspawn in the Deep Roads, a cry to the gods in the stone and sea and sky.

            Faced with their support, their will, Alistair could only raise his spear into the sky, as one named Teyrn – warleader – did. The roar that followed echoed off the skin of the Lady of the Skies, startling Her birds into the air to carry word to the gods that a new warleader had been chosen by the warriors of the Alamarri.

            Then he grounded his spear and looked down at the fierce, hopeful faces. “I will bring war to your enemies and if the gods are kind, victory,” he promised. “We face darkspawn to the south and a man who betrayed his Teyrn to the north. My gods are those of stone and winter and sky, the gods that once we all worshipped, but like your Andraste and her Maker they do not abide oathbreakers! I am wed to a woman of the Alamarri, my father was a lord of the Alamarri and my mother a Warden-shaman of the Elvhen, and my foster kin the Avvar of Ramhold. Together, we will triumph against the darkspawn, against the traitors in the north, and even the fucking Ciriane if they dare cross the Frostbacks or slink in by sea! WHO IS WITH ME?”

            The force roared and drummed their approval until a slash of Alistair’s spear silenced them. He was nowhere near ready to be a warleader like Teyrn Loghain, but they had chosen him, and so he would need to learn _fast_. “Then pack up and move out. We must be in Lothering by sunset.”

            Galvanised by a bitter victory and the speech, the soldiers and their camp followers did, getting themselves ready in haste that was nothing short of astonishing. Each of them, he noticed, wielded one of the broken willow staves or carried it lashed to their back after the Wardens had cleaned the taint off.

            Mara handed the Cousland Sword back to him, the weapon too heavy for her to carry, and he saw that she also had a spear lashed to her back. Had Balak O Skyhold’s wife Sigdrifa looked so fierce, a falcon glaring defiance at the world, when he sent her deep into the Frostbacks to gather the people for a raid into the Alamarri lands after a terrible war with the Ciriane?

            “It is moments like this which break or bind a group together,” she told him unrepentantly, as if she expected opprobrium for her actions. He couldn’t imagine why. “I had to do _something._ ”

            “I will be the warleader you need,” he promised gently.

            “I hope _somebody_ will be,” she muttered as she walked away.

            Alistair grinned at her back. She honoured him in public and kept him humble in private, as a wise spouse should.

            Then he took a deep breath, lost the grin and prepared to march. It would be most of the day to reach Lothering, assuming there were no more darkspawn. At least Carver and Cauthrien were Wardens too, to give more warning than Daveth alone could.

            If he was going to be Teyrn, warleader, he’d better start acting like it.


	8. The Ebb and the Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for description of menstruation, mention of massacre, violence and death.

Lothering was in sight when the familiar tug at her womb, the harbinger of cramps to come, told Mara that her moon’s blood had begun. Mingled relief and terror coursed through her veins as she clung to her horse’s saddle-horn in exhaustion, yearning for a warm bed and dreamless sleep to chase away the horrors of the second massacre she’d survived in a month, if only for a night. She would not fight in this Blight pregnant, not yet, but poor sweet Dairren would never have a child to carry his name. And now she would need to steel herself to approach this son of Maric, raised by the Avvar and as coldly terrible in battle as any winter-raider from the Frostbacks, to take her place in his bed.

            Not that Alistair was cruel, far from it. His willingness to see another man’s offspring be given their rightful birthright and the gentleness he tried to show to Mara proved that. But the cold battle-fury, a far cry from the hot-eyed reavers she observed in the lists at the yearly Highever tourney, thrilled through his veins and doubled the natural aura of command all Theirins possessed. Aldenon the Wise had bound charisma into heirs of Calenhad, blood and bone, as he had threaded cunning through the filaments of Elias Howe’s kin and justice into the flesh of Elethea Cousland’s children. Virtues, one and all, but the Alamarri auger – last of his kind as the Circle took root in Ferelden – followed gods that knew neither mercy nor softness and so cruelty or rage could warp the gifts of the Uasal Ard into something worse just as a spirit could be corrupted into a demon.

            The guileless Avvar warrior who walked into Ostagar at Duncan’s side was already fading away, replaced by a Teyrn who needed to be acclaimed – harsh times called for a hard leader – and reminded Mara that for all his soft words, Alistair had come of age amongst a cold, hard people born to a cold, hard land.

            Fergus, tempered by pain and betrayal, would let justice subvert loyalty to call Cailan before the Landsmeet to answer for his foolishness once they had a breather in the war. Ferelden, unstable in the years since Maric vanished, a sacrifice to the seas, would disintegrate at the worst possible time. Despite his words that he would bow to the Mac Tirs should they rise to ascendance, Mara knew he intended to fight for the Mabari Throne, to make certain the Couslands would have the power to avenge their dead and never be vulnerable again.

            “We’re almost to my family’s farm,” Carver Hawke, now a Warden, told Daveth. “Garrett’s an arse, but he knows healing magic.”

            “Let me guess, he thinks you’re a right tit,” the half-Chasind observed blandly.

            “You’ve met him, haven’t you?” Carver asked with narrowed eyes.

            “Nope, but you scream ‘right tit’ all over the place.”

            Mara sighed. Was she the only one shaken by the darkspawn attack? Everyone else called it a victory, and perhaps it was with only a third of the force that left Ostagar dead, but she mostly remembered standing around helpless trying to shoot enemies with a crossbow too heavy for her to handle and one lucky thrown knife. Just like the battle for Castle Cousland had been her flailing around with knives – poorly – while her mother gave orders in a cool, calm voice.

            The Wardens broke off from the rest of the army once they reached a small sharecroppers’ cottage about a mile outside of Lothering proper. “We’ll get the Hawkes outta here,” Daveth told Alistair. “Two of ‘em are apostates and apparently Mama Hawke was some noble in the Free Marches, so she’ll know how to run a household and handle nobs bit more than Milady Mara.”

            Mara flushed. She knew how to run a castle and the basics of formal etiquette! As the flush of anger ebbed away, she realised that Daveth meant no insult – everyone knew she was young and inexperienced. Alistair, two years older than her, had grown up a lot faster and harder than she’d had to. Apparently he’d even been married for a couple years to a wife he stole from her clan, with her full encouragement.

            _Hopefully she taught him something,_ she thought, flinching at the idea. Mara liked bedsport well enough, she supposed, and both Ser Gilmore and Dairren had been patient with her – but it wasn’t something she sought out and not for some bullshit idea about a woman’s chastity like they had in the Anderfels.

            At least she had a few days’ grace before approaching Alistair.

            The Prince turned that brilliant golden gaze on Daveth after noting Mara’s reaction. “My wife does well enough,” he said.

            “Milady Mara does plenty,” Daveth agreed. “But a diplomat she ain’t. Carver says Mama Hawke knows how to do all that nob entertaining shit that you’re gonna have to do in Redcliffe with Arlessa Isolde.”

            “My mother was an Amell of Kirkwall,” Carver added. “Truth be told, I think she’d like it. She’s been wanting to haul us back to Kirkwall and reclaim our family’s fucking name.”

            “It is… customary… for an older noblewoman of lesser rank to serve as companion, confidante and mentor to a younger, high-ranking noblewoman in the Free Marches,” Mara said quickly. “And if she’s the Amell I’m thinking of – Leandra – then she was a mistress of such things.”

            “That’s Mother,” Carver agreed.

            “I will name your kin shaman-born of my household, as Alamarri reckon these things,” Alistair promised softly. “Had we two or three shamans about last night, we would have saved more warriors.”

            Daveth turned to Cauthrien. “Come with or go?”

            “I’ll stay with Prince Alistair,” she promptly announced. “Until formally relieved of my command, I still lead Maric’s Shield.”

            “Good idea. Hell, if Duncan an’ Bryt don’t make it outta Ostagar, guess you’ll be Warden-Commander of Ferelden.” Daveth smirked bitterly. “Couldn’t plan a battlefield if Milady Mara gave me a dozen books and a lecture on it.”

            “Probably because even _with_ a dozen books and a hundred lectures on the matter, I never got the knack of strategy beyond small groups,” Mara admitted ruefully. Daveth had taken to treating her with an odd sort of respect – not servile or anything, but acting like she was worthy of honour, and damned if she knew why.

            “More’n I got,” Daveth said philosophically. “Try not to cause a stampede, Alistair Ar Fiona, unless they’re gonna leave their food behind for us.”

            Alistair rolled his eyes at the Warden before walking over to Mara’s side. “We should report to the local Thane… Bann,” he corrected himself on the last word.

            “Bann Ceorlic and his wife remain in Denerim for ‘their health’,” Mara said sarcastically as she nudged the tired mare into a slow walk. “The steward will be running things.”

            Lothering sat on the crossroads of two major trade routes: the Gwaren-Frostback route and the terminus of the north-south route. It should have been moderately prosperous, but instead looked dusty, shabby and worn, its people too thin and ragged for a Fereldan bannorn. Even through her exhaustion and the beginning of her cramps, Mara felt a slow rage seep through her bones.

            Alistair caught sight of her face after a red-haired woman in a green cloak grabbed her son and pulled him away from the advancing army. “What’s wrong?” he asked in Old Alamarri, a language that was half-known here.

            “Bann Ceorlic isn’t a Bann’s backside,” she told him bitterly. “Lothering should be more prosperous – it’s a major stop on two trade routes and is just a day’s north of where the Chasind chieftains hold their yearly meetings! Its people shouldn’t have gaunt cheeks and circles under their eyes. And I can’t see more than a cow or three, when there should be several milk-cows, a couple prime bulls, and a few calves being fattened for the winter.”

            The Avvar warrior looked around, frowning slightly as the blacksmith, who managed to look like shit, flinched in fear. “They look like a Hold that survived a summer famine and winter of crows.”

            “But it’s mid-autumn, Alistair. They and the livestock should be well-fed, if not fat,” Mara explained to him. The Cousland scion raised to rule a bannorn – Bryce would have seen his daughter have a say in the Landsmeet – wanted to march up to the manner and whip Bann Ceorlic’s steward bloody. Even the bloody beggars in Highever were fatter than the people of Lothering.

            “What is the bet that Howe would find a friend in this Bann Ceorlic?” the son of Maric noted sourly. “Crows of a feather flock together.”

            “I don’t bet on things like that. I hate to lose.” Mara looked at Cauthrien’s face, noting the same expression of tight anger that likely matched her own.

            “And no doubt they’ll not leave because they’re attached to the land,” Alistair observed softly. “The darkspawn will scythe through this lot like winter-dead weeds being cleared for spring planting.”

            “Then we’ll convince them to leave. Surely Redcliffe can take on some refugees.” Mara wrestled down her exhaustion as she spotted a templar. “I’d better speak to the Revered Mother. If anyone’s organised around here, it will be the Chantry.”

            Alistair’s noise of contempt said it all.

            She approached the helmeted warrior, feeling the weight of anonymous eyes in the winged helmet. “Do you know if the Revered Mother is receiving guests?” she asked politely. “The King sent us from Ostagar.”

            “Revered Mother Rosalind is in the Chantry, my lady,” the templar responded neutrally. “Might I ask your names?”

            “Lady Mara Cousland of Highever, my husband Alistair Ar Fiona ac Maric O Ramhold, Ser Cauthrien, Commander of Maric’s Shield, and Wardens Daveth and Carver Hawke,” Mara answered softly.

            The templar’s eyes swung in Alistair’s direction before widening. “The sisters at Ostagar-.” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “You are welcome to see the Revered Mother, Lady Cousland, but…”

            “But what?” Cauthrien asked, noting his hesitation.

            “Arl Rendon Howe has declared himself Lord of the North. With Arl Eamon sick from a mysterious illness and no word out of Redcliffe since then, there’s been no one to oppose him.” The templar’s voice was still neutral; political struggles meant little to the Chantry so long as both sides tithed.

            “That’s why, in part, why we were sent from Ostagar. The rest of it is that we are to prepare for the army’s inevitable retreat,” Mara answered, forcing her voice to calmness. “The Chantry would do well to pack and work to have people heading north, because Rendon Howe or not, the darkspawn are infinitely worse.”

            “You’ll need to speak to Ser Bryant, our Knight-Captain, and Revered Mother Rosalind,” the templar responded. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must stand guard.”

            “Lovely, darkspawn come from the south and he’ll stand there watching,” Alistair muttered beneath his breath. “Let us meet with this Revered Mother.”

            Revered Mother Rosalind was _most_ disconcerted to find a dishevelled Mara Cousland and a powerful Avvar warrior who claimed to be a son of Maric waiting for her in the small solar she claimed as her own. Mara was uncomfortable to see the outline of a Seeker’s amulet on the sweet-faced lay sister with the dulcet Orlesian tones who scrubbed floors for apparently having visions.

            “We won’t take too much of your grain, but we need healing herbs and new tents,” Alistair said quietly. “We also need you to get moving.”

            “Have you heard what Rendon Howe’s doing up north?” bleated the Revered Mother.

            “I imagine it’s no fucking worse than what the darkspawn will do when they come,” Alistair growled. “Just because your Andraste martyred herself doesn’t mean Lothering should follow her example.”

            “The Maker told me of the coming darkness,” the Orlesian sister suddenly said, ceasing her scrubbing. “I looked down from a great height and saw the darkness rise, a crowned mabari with golden eyes and a laurel-wreathed falcon trying to hold it back until griffins beat it back with powerful wings.”

            “Sister Leliana, I would remind you that only Andraste received visions from the Maker!” spat the Revered Mother.

            “Maybe your Andraste sent her the vision,” Alistair drawled. “How else would Sister Leliana know that I think of Mara as a falcon?”

            “My time here is done, Revered Mother,” Leliana continued, blue eyes glinting suddenly. “I will be leaving with Prince Alistair and Lady Mara.”

            For some reason (alright, because she was just silenced by a Seeker) Revered Mother Rosalind had nothing to say.

            “A Seeker of Truth will be welcome on the trip north,” Mara added pointedly, nodding politely.

            Leliana looked momentarily chagrined at being discovered so easily before inclining her head. “I see your eyes are as sharp as your mind, Lady Mara,” she admitted calmly. “I might as well put on my armour then.”

            She left the solar as the Revered Mother allowed herself a soft curse. “Seekers and heathens,” the woman muttered under her breath.

            “What is a Seeker of Truth?” Alistair asked quietly.

            “They are agents of the Divine. Some are scholars who study whatever the Chantry deems necessary. Others are warriors who purify themselves through a ritual and gain powers not unlike a templar, but with no need of lyrium. Some few are spies and bards who monitor the Chantry’s interests.” Mara glanced at the Revered Mother. “Officially, they are to keep the Chantry from becoming corrupt, be it dealing with templar excesses in a Circle or a Grand Cleric skimming on the tithes. Other times they are sent against enemies of the faith who cannot be dealt with by templars, like powerful Tevinter magisters or renegade rulers. They answer only to the Divine and are only bound by the rule of obedience, not those of chastity or poverty.”

            Alistair tilted his head. “How did you know this Leliana was one?”

            “Because the half-Tranquil, those who aren’t mages, tend to make excellent scholars or warriors because of our ability to focus much like a true Tranquil,” Mara answered with a sigh. “And because Cassandra Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine, all but tried to drag me out of Highever to become a Seeker when I was eight.”

            The warrior grunted. “I’m glad you’re not. It would be awkward.”

            Mara could agree on that. She believed in the Maker, as a good Fereldan should, but she often thought the Chantry could do better.

            Instead she tried to engage Revered Mother Rosalind on what was going on the North while Alistair when to see the army’s supplying. Little more than rumours had filtered down since the way through Redcliffe was cut off, but reportedly there was a Knight of Redcliffe in town looking for information on the Urn of Sacred Ashes because Arl Eamon was sick.

            “Surely the King will drive back the darkspawn at Ostagar!” Rosalind said at one point as the sun westered, painting her solar in gold and rose that was streaked with shadows from the incoming clouds.

            “Short of the archdemon appearing, no,” Mara said grimly.

            Horns suddenly blared outside and the double doors to the Chantry opened, Fergus striding in, looking grim. “Get everything that can be salvaged and go!” he commanded. “The darkspawn are coming.”

            Mara’s belly cramped and she felt the trickle of blood into her loincloth as her moon’s time began. _An appropriate omen,_ she thought grimly as the Chantry snapped into action. Soon Lothering – no, Ferelden – would be soaked in blood.


	9. A Shattered Shade of Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for violence and death.

Fergus Cousland was relieved that his little sister survived the flight from Ostagar and even more so that her courses, no doubt disrupted by the horrors of Highever, were regular again. Dairren Loren had been a good lad, kind enough and with enough book smarts to keep Mara interested, but he hadn’t been the now-Teyrn of Highever’s first choice of betrothed. The cold, calm mask that Mara presented to the world concealed a will stubborn as any other Cousland’s and a sense of justice that dealt with absolutes, not the thousand shades of grey that permeated the Uasal Ard’s idea of law and right. A shade of justice, that in Fergus’ eyes, had been shattered by Cailan’s clumsy politicking and Howe’s betrayal, the causes of the slaughter at Castle Cousland. Perhaps his little sister had the right of it to see the world in black and white, right and wrong, even if sometimes she came to it in a strange process no one else understood.

            “I had two choices – throw myself into the melee and die pointlessly after Cailan committed the reserves or take myself and what was left of the northern forces out of there,” he explained to a weary-looking Mara and a hard-eyed Alistair over a pot of raspberry leaf tea graciously donated by the Revered Mother, who found her manners again when presented with the Teyrn of Highever. Not his first brew of choice but it was sovereign for cramps and nausea, which always took Mara hard in the first two or three days of her courses. Stubbornly, of course, she chose to remain and hear Fergus’ story instead of rest.

            Alistair, who understood the necessities of war, sighed but nodded. “Perhaps Loghain salvaged what he could and fell back,” he finally said. “Cailan meant well, but he was never allowed to learn how to make mistakes and gain from them.”

            Fergus would be happy to see Loghain lost to the darkspawn for all the man’s strategic genius because without him, Anora had little muscle to call upon. The woman _was_ an able administrator and even competent peacetime ruler, but despite her warrior training a general she was not. He bore her no ill will but when the Landsmeet was called in Denerim, even if by some fluke Cailan survived, a competent commander would need to take the Mabari Throne. The disasters at Highever and Ostagar showed the folly of not choosing the Couslands five years ago.

            But he nodded because Mara’s husband, acclaimed Teyrn in battle after defeating a band of darkspawn twice the size of his force with only a third of his troops dying, was an ally that would need to be handled carefully. Fergus found himself _liking_ the Avvar-raised bastard of Maric’s, not just because he handled Mara carefully and was protective of the Half-Tranquil woman. He was smart, principled and loyal, yet not to the point of idiocy. That he and Mara might produce children, buying Fergus a little time for all his words of courting Habren Bryland once the mourning period for Oriana and Oren was done, that would have a double-strain of Calenhad’s blood was a bonus.

            He closed his eyes, heart aching for the loss of his beloved Antivan lady and their eager son, before forcing the grief aside. He had to be a commander in this battle, not a heartbroken father. If Mara, who endured infinitely more pain by living through the massacre at Castle Cousland, could set aside her grief to focus on duty then so could Fergus.

            “I need to be frank,” he said, proud of the strength in his voice as he spoke. “Whether or not Cailan and Loghain managed to survive Ostagar, we need to call a Landsmeet to choose a new King or Queen.”

            “We won’t be able to call a Landsmeet until this Howe is dead,” Alistair pointed out, rather pragmatically.

            “Howe will come to the Landsmeet if it kills him,” Mara disagreed with more shrewdness than he expected from his bookish sister.

            “Exactly. Though if he died before the Landsmeet happens, I would be happy,” Fergus admitted.

            “We will go to Redcliffe and see what is wrong with this Arl Eamon,” Alistair announced. “A sickness can come through the will of the gods but oftentimes the hand of mortals can help it along.”

            Fergus could just as well do without Eamon Guerrin but he had to be seen to do the right thing. “That’s not a bad idea. Mara, do you want to go with him or come with me to Denerim?”

            “I’ll go with Alistair,” she said quietly. “If Eamon’s sick or poisoned, then Bann Teagan is Arl of Redcliffe until Connor reaches his majority.”

            Teagan, though raised in the Free Marches and obsessed with all things tourney-related, would make for a better Arl (less obsessed with politics beyond his duty as a diplomat) than Eamon. “You’re right, little sister.”

            “I want to approach from the west,” Alistair said, looking to Mara. “I know we have the Hawkes, but there’s a couple healer-shamans at Stone Bear Hold, and someone needs to warn the Holds of what happened at Ostagar.”

            “I can spare you Healer Wynne,” Fergus immediately offered. “I’m not sure you can afford the detour, Alistair.”

            Maric’s bastard swung those polished-sovereign eyes in his direction. “I know you mean to challenge for the Mabari Throne,” he said bluntly. “This… Arlessa Isolde? She sent all her Knights to search for the tomb you lowlanders call the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Everyone in the Frostback Mountains knows where to find it – once we called the place Ladyhold until heretics who worship a high dragon as your Andraste took over. With the force I have, with the warriors and shaman-born of two or three Holds added to it, we can cleanse the rot from the place, regain one of our most sacred sites, and even bring down some of those ashes to heal Arl Eamon… or whoever might take sick inconveniently.”

            It was all Fergus could do not to gape at the Avvar warrior’s political savvy. “I… apologise,” he said quickly.

            “The Avvar are isolated, not ignorant,” Alistair observed dryly, looking down at Mara who was staring into her cup of tea. Most people would assume she was dozy but Fergus knew better: Mara was already running her brain through the massive amounts of lore she’d accumulated from her chosen studies of Fereldan history, a course of knowledge most of the Uasal Ard considered the Couslands unwise for letting her pursue. But the ancient laws that still governed Ferelden stemmed from the Alamarri and so Bryce permitted it so long as she also learned the practical arts of a noblewoman.

            “So I’m beginning to see,” Fergus said just as dryly. “I’ll be blunt, Alistair – you may be Maric’s son, but your mother was an elven mage and you yourself are what Andrasteans call a heathen. That doesn’t mean much to me, but it disqualifies you from the Mabari Throne, even with a marriage to Mara.”

            Alistair shrugged. “I could care less what the Chantry thinks of me and only be polite for your sister’s sake. I think this choosing a Thane to rule on the basis of ancestry is ridiculous, myself. Amongst the Avvar, the Thane is the best choice for the Hold. Sometimes it’s the wisest elder, the greatest warrior or even the shrewdest trader.”

            “Every ruler must be ratified by the Landsmeet, which is like your Hold choosing a Thane,” Fergus explained. “Maric earned the right by freeing us from Orlesian rule. Father was persuaded to challenge Cailan because of his inexperience and the fact power had shifted to the south and east – Redcliffe and Gwaren – while Highever, West Hills and Amaranthine were ignored. We lost, bowed to Cailan, and managed to at least make the Landsmeet pay attention to the north – where Calenhad came – once again.”

            The Teyrn of Highever sighed. “I don’t like acting like a political opportunist in a time of Blight but Anora has little to no combat experience beyond a few skirmishes, and while she is a diplomat and administrator par excellence, she hasn’t inherited Loghain’s strategic genius. Loghain is too obsessed with Orlais, and while I trust the Empress as far as I can throw an ogre, we can’t completely shut the door to dealing with them as he would. If nothing else, we may need to hire Orlesian mercenaries.”

            Alistair’s elf-gold eyes regarded Fergus intently. “You speak of my brother as if he is no longer King.”

            “Once I reveal that he’s got himself into a technical state of pre-contract with Celene _without_ consulting the Landsmeet, he’ll be kicked off the Mabari Throne if he survived Ostagar. That is… well, some of the harsher critics will view it as treasonous and forgive me, but I can’t forgive him because he used our family to pass on some of those fucking letters, which were no doubt intercepted by Rendon fucking Howe and led to their murder!”

            Fergus’ voice had risen to a half-shout as some of the fury and betrayal seeped out to bleed into his tone. He struggled to calm down because the Avvar before him was innocent of his brother’s stupidity and while Alistair would stand at his brother’s back, he needed to be aware of the intricacies surrounding Cailan’s actions and the fall of Highever.

            “I’m not arguing with you,” Alistair said quietly. “I was the one who told him to confess to Loghain his failed schemes with the Ciriane and it was Warden-Commander Duncan who told me exactly what those letters meant.”

            Fergus flushed with shame. “I’m sorry, kinsman.”

            “You mourn your family.” Alistair tilted his head, expression a mystery, and Fergus wondered if he realised that the Teyrn of Highever had withdrawn his forces once the beacon was lit and the shadow of a dragon seen from the sky.

            Some might call that treason but the Couslands once let a Teyrn die fruitlessly for a King, which led to a bastard being sired upon the Teyrna of Highever and the seventy-year exile of the Couslands from their teyrnir. Fergus had to think of Ferelden… and justice demanded that he see the Landsmeet know of Cailan’s idiocy.

            “Forget Habren as a wife,” Mara finally said. “I’m not just saying that because I detest her.”

            Fergus found a smile. “I bet that’s a bonus to your advice.”

            Mara didn’t match his smile. He wondered where the hoarseness in her formally high, flutelike voice came from but hadn’t thought to ask. “Offer to Anora. Bind the Mac Tirs’ claim – and it’s a good one – to the Couslands’. She’ll have the right of divorce from Cailan or be widowed and will do anything to maintain her grip on power.”

            Fergus looked at his little sister in a new light. Always slender, now she was rail-thin, lines of pain and grief carved deeply into the oval face with its overlarge grey-blue eyes that aged her with the light ash-blonde of her hair. Perhaps the hoarseness was less an injury and more a sign of maturity found in the horrors of Highever.

            “If you don’t make the offer, you _will_ look like a political opportunist,” Mara continued bluntly.

            The tragedy was that she was right. Fergus nodded tightly, grateful he hadn’t sent that message to Bryland yet, and rose to his feet. “If she _is_ barren, then your children will be my only heirs,” he told Mara pointedly. “At least they’re Theirins, even bastard ones that will likely get the Guerrins and other traditionalists on my side.”

            She paled a little but nodded. Good. Fergus wished he could let her mourn for Dairren but if he couldn’t grieve for Oriana, she couldn’t have the luxury. The Blight took that option from them.

            Even his sister pregnant with a Theirin heir would bolster Fergus’ claim to the Mabari Throne. He found the idea of marrying Anora distasteful and actually hoped that she would refuse, thereby damaging her own claim to the crown. But if she was as shrewd as her father, albeit in a political sense, and was wise enough to divorce Cailan…

            In Fergus’ world, there was now only black and white, right and wrong while they lived in a Blight. He was the most senior, non-compromised commander in Ferelden’s armed forces as well as its senior noble. He couldn’t stand the thought of the Couslands being helpless and bowing to the whims of the Landsmeet once more, prey for whatever ambitious Arl who came along. As King, he could crush Howe and those who sided with the Arl of Amaranthine while rewarding those true enough to stand by him.

            Justice was the Cousland virtue but damned if he would temper it with mercy while his family’s enemies surrounded him. You were either with the Couslands or against them now and Fergus hoped that the Uasal Ard would be wise enough to understand that.


	10. The Alamarri Sword-Oath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for mentions of death and violence.

“Alistair, we found a few stragglers from Ostagar.”

            Daveth entered the camp they’d made a day outside of Lothering, supporting a lean, scar-faced woman with a feathered cap while Carver half-dragged, half-supported a bruised, fair-haired man in little more than rags. Alistair set aside the map of the Hinterlands Mara got from the Chantry in Lothering and stood up to help. Cauthrien was overseeing the building of fortifications while Mara organised the camp followers with Leandra Hawke’s aid, the older woman automatically mothering his wife.

            “Healers! We have survivors from Ostagar!” he bellowed, drawing the attention of Garrett Hawke – a surprisingly muscular shaman-born with messy dark hair and a beard worthy of a dwarf – and Healer Wynne, who was only too happy to leave Fergus’ service for theirs. It seemed the Senior Enchanter had a different opinion of Fergus’ withdrawal, one that was probably drawn from her vocation as a Spirit Healer, which was a bit like an auger (or so he gathered) who focused entirely on mending the injured and sick.

            “Glad… we got you… instead of Fergus fucking Cousland,” rasped the woman, coughing out bloody phlegm. “Quartermaster Threnn at yer service, milord.”

            “No taint on either of them,” Wynne announced after looking _through_ them. “Both blessedly lucky.”

            “Doubt blessing had much t’ do with it, ma’am,” Threnn observed as Daveth helped her to sit. “If not for a Witch of the Wilds, the King wouldn’t have known to retreat after Cousland didn’t charge.”

            “Fergus told me that Cailan charged ahead and he had to fall back or the entire army would have been lost,” Alistair said neutrally, kneeling by the woman and offering his own waterskin of elfroot-laced water. “He’s gone ahead to Denerim.”

            “We charged when the beacon was lit, late as it was,” moaned the bruised, battered man with Cailan’s voice. “I suppose… Fergus decided…”

            “Easy, brother mine, drink,” Alistair urged his kinsman, giving him some of the water.

            Cailan swallowed thirstily, the elfroot water reviving him. One eye had been torn out by something while the other was as bleak as a winter’s sky. “Fergus Cousland left Loghain and me to die. Last… I saw… the archdemon was attacking Loghain’s force. Maker help me, I couldn’t go back, not when a Witch of the Wilds warned me to retreat.”

            Alistair supposed that Fergus’ strategic withdrawal, as lowlanders called such things, would seem betrayal to those left behind. “Listening to the Woman of Many Years is wise,” he agreed.

            “She was dark of hair and yellow of eye, a beauty in the prime of life…” Cailan said wistfully.

            “Morrigan,” Daveth identified as he helped Threnn tug off her leather jacket for Wynne to check her out. “Daughter of Flemeth.”

            “I am in her debt,” the King said softly. “Alistair… Fergus left as the beacon went up, perhaps even before. The darkspawn must have taken over the Tower of Ishal, forcing the Wardens to fight through them…”

            “That will be a discussion you can have with him at the Landsmeet,” Alistair told him grimly. “Fergus intends to reveal your letters to Celene, he said it was treasonous. Mara told him if he was wise, he would pay court to Anora, who surely has grounds for a divorce as you lowlanders reckon such things.”

            “Cousland justice at its finest,” Cailan said bitterly. “Why aren’t you going to Redcliffe? Change of plan?”

            “I need to warn the southern Avvar Holds of what happened at Ostagar,” Alistair told him. “Also, Arl Eamon is sick. With this army and the Holds, I can reclaim a sacred site to us where you lot claim Andraste is buried, and use the Ashes there to heal Eamon.”

            Cailan groaned as Garrett Hawke healed him. “I _do_ love the dances the nobility performs,” the shaman-born noted sardonically.

            “Lowlanders,” Alistair corrected mildly.

            “Eamon won’t support Cousland, especially if Anora teams up with him,” Cailan said, coughing up muck and spitting it out. “He was the one who suggested I pay court to the Empress for aid against the Blight.”

            “Married to a Ciriane, isn’t he?”

            “Ciriane – Orlesian? Yes,” Cailan confirmed.

            “Not an unbiased opinion then, my brother.” Alistair sighed, shaking his head in disgust with lowlander politics. “We should wash our hands of this lot and return to the Holds.”

            “Anora… deserves the truth. She deserves my support, for what it’s worth,” Cailan said grimly. “And… I should face the Landsmeet. I suspect Howe moved against the Couslands because I used Bryce’s trade mission to Orlais last year as a means of passing messages to Celene without the Uasal Ard knowing.”

            “We could ride to Denerim, kidnap her and bring her to Ramhold,” Alistair suggested, half-seriously. Anora seemed very practical, maybe a little cold like Mara, but all in all a good Thane.

            “You’d have to pry the crown from Anora’s cold dead fingers,” Cailan answered with a rueful grimace.

            “Past time your marriage ended, brother.” Alistair looked to Mara, who’d worn a troubled expression on her face since they left Fergus in Lothering.

            “Perhaps yours too?” Cailan asked softly.

            “No!” Alistair’s tone was more forceful than it should be. “I think Mara has been bothered by some of what Fergus said. I can’t read these lowlanders well but Fergus made a big deal about Theirin heirs while pointing out as the son of an elvhen Warden-Mage and a ‘heathen’ into the bargain, I have no right to the Throne.”

            “Poor Lady Cousland loses her betrothed, gets forcibly married to a barbarian – forgive me, my brother, you know what I mean – and then presumably since she isn’t carrying Dairren Loren’s son, Fergus is telling her to get pregnant in a hurry,” Cailan said disgustedly. “Of course, since Fergus seems to be riding the wave of what he calls pragmatism, once Mara’s borne you a child you become… well… superfluous.”

            “She wouldn’t allow it,” Alistair said softly. He knew that much about Mara.

            “Hunting accidents can be made to happen without her knowledge,” Cailan observed, just as softly. “I’ve… dragged you into this whole sorry mess. I should have let you join the Wardens.”

            Alistair clasped his brother’s shoulder. “You are my brother. I will stand at your back.” He rose to his feet. “I should speak to Mara.”

            She was peeling roots again, the willow spear that so many of his force had kept now tipped with a wicked iron point. “Cailan?” she asked quietly.

            “Aye.” He sat down beside her. “Mara, he told me that Fergus left as the beacon went up, maybe even before.”

            “That doesn’t surprise me. I suppose we’ll never know the exact truth of what happened.” She continued to peel brown skin away from white moist flesh. “What Fergus says makes sense on the surface, but in him the Cousland sense of justice has been warped by the loss of our family, Cailan’s involvement in it, and what happened at Ostagar.”

            His wife had explained how the last Alamarri auger bound virtues into the Uasal Ard, explaining that so long as he knew which families a person descended from, he could at least guess some of their behaviour accurately. Her bloodlines, she explained, were Cousland and Howe on her father’s side – which was why she refused to marry one of the Howe men, though she rather liked Rendon’s eldest Nate, because they were too close kin – and Storm Coast and Waking Sea on her mother’s side. Justice, cunning, fierceness and tenacity, just like a falcon of the Lady.

            “If I had my way, I’d take everyone here and head back to the Holds,” Alistair said disgustedly. “The Blight threatens us as much as the lowlanders.”

            “Unless we found a way to transport the survivors of Highever, I couldn’t countenance that,” Mara answered quietly. He recalled her outrage at the state that Lothering and its people were in. “I… want this civil war to end quickly so we can face the real enemy, the darkspawn.”

            “And Cailan admitted he needs to face the Landsmeet and support Anora,” Alistair added.

            Mara’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s… more mature of him than I expected. But I imagine Ostagar knocked the childishness out of him. Maker knows massacres have a way of doing that to people.” Her tone was bitter.

            “He’s ashamed of his mistakes, Mara. He deserves to answer for them before the Hold and make restitution, if he can.” Alistair’s voice turned grim. “Forgive me, but I think your brother would prefer he didn’t.”

            “You’re not far bloody wrong,” Mara agreed. “Fergus would no doubt be relieved if Loghain died too. Andraste’s ashen nether regions, I wish Cailan had at least talked to Mother and Father, maybe even the Privy fucking Council. His idea was a good one in its way, but by doing it alone, he’s buggered up Ferelden nicely.”

            “I think nearly everybody’s had a hand in doing that, Milady Mara,” Daveth observed, squatting on his heels in the Chasind manner by the fire. “We need to think of Fergus’ actions beyond the political shit: he left all the Wardens bar me, Carver and Cauthrien to die.”

            Mara’s face went white as the root she was peeling. “Oh Maker’s bloody breath…”

            “Yep.” Daveth didn’t look triumphant in revealing the true foolishness of Fergus’ actions, rather regretful in breaking the news to someone he considered ‘one of the few nobs worth something’. Alistair would have to ask why, because it confused his wife when he questioned her about it. “If not for Duncan and Bryt’s foresight, there’d be no Wardens an’ the archdemon woulda taken Ferelden by now.”

            His wife took a deep shuddering breath, tears gleaming in her eyes. “Do you have the treaties? I recall Duncan mentioning something about them.”

            “Yep, Bryt told me to hang onto them ‘cause I was heading out with you.”

            “Those treaties predate Ferelden. May I examine them?” She gave a bitter smile and set aside her knife and the root she peeled. “I can read Old Alamarri in its three forms. The treaties would have been written in one of them.”

            Daveth handed over the bundled papers, their parchment pages shining with an old Tevinter enchantment against rot. Alistair studied the seals – silver-green with a leaf mask for the Dalish Elvhen and the ochre-and-brown of the dwarven Kings were familiar, but the dozen or so others were unfamiliar – as Mara pored through the treaties, their borders inscribed in beautiful Alamarri knotwork that shifted in style.

            “These were first written just after the First Blight – the Kings of Orzammar were the first to sign them – and updated until the time of Calenhad the Great,” Mara explained as her finger ran over the lines. “Old Alamarri is derived from the dwarven runes, you see? ‘Maferath, Teyrn of the Avvar-‘ Maker’s breath, Maferath the Betrayer signed these!”

            “Maferath was one of five Teyrns we had,” Alistair confirmed as he puzzled his way through the dialect. “Tyrdda Bright-Axe, Aval’ven Tyrddasen, Morrighan’an Tribe-Breaker, Maferath and Balak O Skyhold.”

            Mara’s eyes shone with excitement as she looked up. “I’m holding real fucking history in my hands!” she breathed happily. Then she coughed, looking serious and a bit ashamed. “I’m sorry, but this changes so much of what I know about our history.”

            Cailan limped over, supported by an angry-looking Cauthrien. “How does it help us _now_ , Lady Cousland?” the King prompted pointedly.

             “We can definitely get the dwarves and the Circle of Magi,” she announced, pointing to the relevant seals, the Circle one a white torc on a reddish background. “The Dalish one may be problematic, as it was the Princes of the Dales who signed these treaties, and Orlais shattered the Dales in the Exalted March against the elves. It will depend on whether the appropriate Dalish clans of Ferelden will feel themselves bound or not. Both Highever and Redcliffe are also bound to answer the call of the Grey Wardens as they existed when the treaties were last updated, but Ferelden as a nation is _not._ We will have to hope that self-preservation guides Arls like Wulffe and Bryland, plus the Bannorn, to stand with us.”

            “If they don’t stand with us, they die,” Daveth said grimly, accepting the treaties that Mara folded reverently like a relic of the gods and handed back to him. “Mind you, a few less of the Uasal Ard in the world would be a better place.”

            Mara’s face turned grim. “Maker’s bloody breath, you won’t catch _me_ disagreeing, Daveth. The treaties _must_ take precedence over the Landsmeet. If we tarry, there won’t _be_ a Ferelden for Cailan, Fergus, Anora or the king-hound of the Theirin royal mabari pack to rule.”

            Cu barked in agreement, a sound even his wife understood. Alistair, who had tended the mabari of the Master of the Hunt in the hopes of bonding to one, often found himself translating their conversations for her.

            She pointed to the treaties still in Daveth’s hand. “We can compel the Sky Watchers, the Ash Warriors and the Hands of Korth to stand with us too.”

            “’Us’, Lady Cousland?” Cauthrien asked pointedly. “My lord Loghain put his trust in your brother and your brother left him to die.”

            “I know.” Mara’s face was grave. “I will leave the Landsmeet to decide who was in the right or wrong. Fergus, Teyrn of Highever, allowed our only chance of defeating the darkspawn to be mostly slaughtered at Ostagar. _That_ is a stain upon the Couslands’ honour, one I must rectify as best I can.”

            She gestured to Alistair. “Draw your sword.”

            He unsheathed the Cousland Sword, wondering why. He knew she wouldn’t fall on her blade – surely – but-

            Mara took the sword reverently from him, its silverite blade shining in the firelight, and drew both her palms down its edges to leave them reddened with blood. “By blood on the blade, I, Mara An Eleanor O Highever, will aid the Grey Wardens in the gathering of the treaties to the best of my ability, forsaking all other duties to kin and land. May Andraste and the Maker look away from me, casting me into the Void on death, if I break this vow.”

            “The old Alamarri sword-oath,” Cauthrien breathed with reluctant awe. He remembered she was of the Clayne.

            Alistair looked to his brother, noting the tight lips and bright eye. “Threnn, may I have my father’s sword?” the King finally asked of the quartermaster.

            The lean woman brought over the massive runed blade and set it down before the King, who followed Mara’s actions. “I, Cailan Ar Rowan O Denerim…”

            When it was done, the blades were plunged into the soil, binding the oath to the land. Alistair didn’t understand that bit, but then he had been raised amongst the Avvar.

            “I will face the Landsmeet eventually but at least, Maker willing, there’ll be a Ferelden to judge me for my foolishness,” Cailan finally said with a sigh.

            “Well, well, the golden King has found some wisdom,” crooned a low sweet voice, causing Daveth to rise to his feet.

            “Morrigan!”

            Pale as the moon with hair as a raven’s wing and the yellow eyes of a daughter of Flemeth, Morrigan An Flemeth chuckled huskily as two battered-looking men in Warden armour approached the camp. Alistair recognised them as a stricken Duncan; the other wore mage leathers. “Indeed,” she said with a slight smile. “It appears even Mother lies in danger from the Blight, so she took the trouble of saving two Wardens and driving some of the darkspawn away from Ostagar. The forces of the silverite general might yet even have escaped.”

            Cailan’s eye narrowed. “The dragon.”

            “Indeed, son of Maric.” Morrigan’s eyes shifted to Alistair and Mara. “The other son of Maric and a daughter of the Couslands. ‘Tis a strange fate that brought you all together.”

            “Fate or chance?” Mara asked calmly.

            “I cannot say, not even perhaps Mother.” Morrigan smiled slightly again, mysterious as the Woman of Many Years herself. “Alistair was destined for the Grey yet here he stands, a Teyrn proclaimed by your own voice.”

            “There comes a time when a group must be bound together or break like autumn-dead leaves,” Mara answered softly. “My husband has his flaws but of us all, he is best suited to command as a warleader.”

            “ _I_ was not questioning your choice, daughter of the Couslands.” Morrigan inclined her head and looked to Alistair with those alien yellow eyes. “How _will_ you command, Lord of the Slaughter?”

            “I will command as I’ve always done,” Alistair replied hoarsely, the only sign of his fear in facing a daughter of Flemeth. “Prepare for what I can, learn from my mistakes and pray to the gods it will be enough.”

            “The gods care little for our prayers, if they exist at all,” Morrigan said carelessly.

            Duncan and the Warden-Mage, a pale man with longish black hair, finally reached them. “Is it true that Fergus Cousland left the Wardens to die?” the Warden-Commander asked flatly.

            “Yes,” Cailan answered before Mara could prevaricate on her brother’s behalf. “Lady Cousland and I will do what we can in our limited power to aid you in reclaiming those treaties, Duncan.”

            The dark-skinned Warden strode over and punched Cailan in the stomach. The man bent over, wheezing, as Duncan spat at his feet. “If you hadn’t played bloody political games, you fool of a boy, my fucking wife might still be alive!”

            “Or not,” Morrigan noted coolly. “The taint was well advanced in her, Warden-Commander; her time was nigh.”

            Duncan turned ashen as Alistair helped his brother up. “She never said a word-“

            “You reckon Bryt woulda told you she was dying?” Daveth asked flatly. “C’mon, Duncan, you know she wouldn’t.”

            “We were to go on our Calling together,” the man said, tears sliding down his lined face.

            “Brytta An Korth knew that you would be needed in the days to come,” Alistair said humbly. “Duncan, I know how to defend against the darkspawn, but I know little of killing them. You know how to kill them, but little of planning how to do so. We need you. Please, help us.”

            The look that Duncan bestowed upon Alistair was of a man who yearned for the Lady’s birds but couldn’t yet seek them. “I know my duty,” he grated.

            “Then don’t waste your time in blaming my brother or my wife,” Alistair responded tersely. “I will sing Brytta’s name to her Ancestors if you wish it.”

            Mara finished bandaging her hands. “So, I assume that we will go to the Holds and collect the treaties there, then to… Ladyhold? Then Orzammar and back down to Redcliffe via the Circle of Magi?”

            “The heretics call it Haven, but aye, Ladyhold,” Alistair agreed. “It will be a long cold trip but you will see the land which forged me.”

            Mara’s smile was wan. Since her moon’s blood had come and gone, she had acted oddly around him. He would need to ask if she feared him in bed or if she was troubled by the idea of bearing a child during a Blight, both understandable concerns.

            Alistair turned around to the gawking warriors and followers. “See to the fortifications and sleep well. We march early tomorrow.”

            This was a duty he could follow with a clear heart and glad he was to have his brother and wife beside him. It would be good to return to the Frostbacks too away from the wrangles and tangles of Alamarri politics.

            He just hoped that Stone Bear Hold, first stop after the Fereldan village of Honnleath, didn’t consider his force an invasion and reacted accordingly. Svarah Sun-Hair was canny and dangerous, and Alistair would do no one good sitting in Storvacker’s belly…


	11. The Warmth of a Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for discussion of experiences of being demisexual and autistic.

Mara shivered and fed a few more twigs into the fire. The foothills of the Frostbacks were colder than she was used to and with autumn well and truly on its way up here, she mourned her lack of a decent fur cloak.  A strange petty thing to be focused upon but she was a few steps away from falling apart, when the camp followers (and Alistair) needed her to be composed if not calm, and it was easier to think of the trivial when it meant she could shy away from the events of the past six weeks.

            She felt like she was dancing widdershins, her life thrown into disarray since the fall of Highever. Mara thought very poorly on her feet and with Fergus’ pragmatism at Ostagar revealing lack of long-term thinking, she had no choice but to support the Wardens, which might lead him to believe her a traitor with his newly absolutist view. The Blight, above all things, had to be put first and with her ability to translate the old treaties accurately, it was the best place she could be. She was a poor fighter and a worse strategist with only barely adequate abilities at organisation and diplomacy.

            Cailan, understandably, had put the worst possible spin on Fergus’ retreat from Ostagar and her brother’s eagerness for Mara to bear Alistair’s children. Fergus wasn’t so far gone as to have Alistair removed once she had a Theirin babe or two. The King also seemed to be of two minds about Anora’s chances, especially with Loghain likely to have survived Ostagar. So much for a quick answer to the budding civil war after spiking Howe’s head somewhere.

            “I’ll get you a better cloak once we’re at Stone Bear Hold,” Alistair promised softly as he sat down beside her.

            “Thank you,” she answered awkwardly. This husband of hers was trying to be gentle but no doubt she disappointed him with her apparent uselessness up here. Or he was wary because of Cailan’s interpretation of Ostagar.

            “If it wouldn’t bite me in the arse, I’d say fuck the lowlands and stay up here,” Alistair continued, looking into the fire. “Could find Cailan a decent wife and marry _you_ in a proper ceremony. But Duncan says that if we don’t collect those treaties, the Wardens won’t be able to stop the archdemon.”

            “Cailan _has_ a decent wife,” Mara pointed out.

            “Anora’s in a bad spot,” Alistair countered. “She’s surely the right to end her marriage to Cailan…”

            He shook his head. “Enough of lowlander politics. Dealing with the Ciriane gives me less of a headache at the moment.”

            “At least you know the Orlesians will screw you over,” Mara said ruefully.

            He snorted in agreement. “True enough. Well done with that sword-oath, by the way. Cauthrien was ready to walk and fuck the Wardens. You got Cailan on your side too.”

            “I’ve never been his enemy,” Mara observed bitterly. “I think Fergus has shown some lousy long-term planning, but his actions at Ostagar – as a veteran commander – make a certain amount of sense. I understand how Cailan must see it, but if Loghain had been in the same position, he would have done the same thing.”

            “He should have done his best to pull Loghain’s force out of the horde’s grip because they held the most Wardens,” Alistair answered, all too accurately. “Against a normal enemy, Fergus did the right thing. Against the darkspawn, he’s fucked up.”

            “I know,” Mara admitted quietly. “I know.”

            “I’m hoping once we collect the treaties, he’ll see his mistake,” Alistair continued quietly. “I don’t want to be his enemy, Mara.”

            “I know,” she all but whispered. If he was having trouble, how did he think _she_ felt?

            “Enough of your brother. We need to talk about us.”

            Mara froze at Alistair’s calm words. What was he going to talk about?

            “Tell me honestly,” he said, looking down at her. “Are you worried about being in bed with me, carrying a babe during a Blight, both or something else?”

            “All of the above?” she countered, her light-hearted tone falling flat. “I know you’re not going to ravish me, but…”

            “I’m a big man and you are very small, almost like an elvhen,” he finished with a rueful smile. “You still mourn your Dairren, no doubt.”

            “I do,” she agreed. “I, ah, also…”

            How to describe it? Mara never blushed over a man until she got to know him, never felt the warmth of her body or her heartbeat quicken until she was friends. “I, ah, need to know a man very well before I… find him attractive.”

            Alistair’s head tilted. “You speak of this as if you should be ashamed?”

            “I know it’s… unusual,” she admitted quietly, flushing for no reason. She had no need to be ashamed but she still felt like a freak.

            “Perhaps, perhaps not.” The Avvar-raised warrior shrugged. “We haven’t had much time to get to know each other. I hope that in time you will find me attractive.”

            She looked over his Theirin face, the sharper planes of elven blood and battle scars wiping away any boyishness that should have lingered on so young a man. Cailan, for all he’d now lost an eye, still looked younger than Alistair despite having five or six years on him.

            “You’re aesthetically pleasing in an old Tevinter bronze statue kind of way, I suppose,” she told him, trying to find a compliment she could deliver honestly.

            His left eyebrow lifted slightly, a flash of humour brightening his golden eyes. “’Old Tevinter bronze statue kind of way’?” he queried.

            “You know, pitted and scarred but with a still-pleasing form.” That was even less eloquent than her previous effort.

            Alistair grinned, a flash of boyishness. “I can work with that.”

            The Avvar warrior sat down beside her. “You remind me of a peregrine falcon, wide eyes that stare and a quick stoop that catches the prey,” he murmured. “The peregrine falcon is the Lady of the Skies’ preferred messenger bird and Her priestesses fly them.”

            Mara found herself breaking out into a smile at the compliment. Her unblinking stare and seeming lack of expression unsettled many people, especially those unused to the Half-Tranquil, yet to Alistair it was… perhaps not attractive, but worthy of praise. “Squawk,” she said, sounding like a falcon with constipation.

            Alistair threw back his head and laughed, drawing some looks from others in the camp. “If I heard one of the Lady’s falcons make that noise, I’d step aside very quickly so it didn’t shit on me.”

            “Oriana liked to go hawking. She had a little kestrel and Oren was just learning to tame and fly his own sparrowhawk.” Mara swallowed thickly, tears stinging her eyes at the thought of her dead sister-in-law and nephew. No wonder Fergus had gone hard after their loss.

            “Many of the Avvar, especially the priestesses and Sky Watchers, fly raptors,” Alistair said softly. “I’m more partial to hounds myself, even apprenticed under the Houndmaster to see if one would imprint on me.”

            Mara reached out and rubbed Cu’s ears, who panted happily while sitting by the fire. “I was five when Cu imprinted on me,” she told him. “Fergus was rather put out. A king-hound or queen-hand, even more so than a usual mabari, is a sign of great status in Ferelden.”

            “Cu means ‘hound’ in the old tongue,” Alistair noted, rubbing the mabari’s neck.

            “I was _five_ , remember?”

            Cu woofed something, stub-tail wagging, and Alistair woofed back with a grin. “Apparently he chose you because two-leg pups are easier to train when they’re young,” he laughed.

            Mara snorted at the hound, who looked at her unrepentantly. “I’ll remember that the next time we have ham,” she retorted.

            Cu whined and hung his head, drawing another roar of laughter from Alistair. “He’ll wind up fat as the King-Ram of our Hold if you give him too many treats, so keep it in mind,” her husband suggested.

            Now _that_ offended Cu to the point where he stood up, deliberately sneezed on Alistair, and walked into her tent to sleep. All of which only made the Avvar laugh harder.

            “Proud as a hold-beast, that one,” he snickered. “I’d love to see him and Storvacker stare each other down.”

            “Storvacker?” Mara asked, smiling ruefully.

            “The hold-beast of Stone-Bear Hold. Big great bear like the ones in the old Elvhen lands where the Ciriane hold sway.”

            “What if she eats him?”

            “Not likely, Storvacker’s no fool. And Cu could take her down easily enough, she’s so fat and spoiled.” Alistair looked around and said quietly, “Please don’t tell Thane Svarah Sun-Hair that. She’d not be amused and we need her help.”

            Mara nodded in a silent promise. “How did she get the name of ‘Sun-Hair’?”

            “Fought with her hair on fire once. Don’t know the full story.” Alistair shrugged broad shoulders. Cailan wasn’t a little man by any means, but his was the muscle of an athletic man who didn’t wear armour every day. Alistair’s muscle was a solid slab, none of the broad shoulders that narrowed into lean hips that sculptors adored, but rock-hard brawn from neck to thighs. If Cailan, who she’d seen shirtless, was chiselled marble then Alistair was rough granite.

            “It must make for quite the honour-mark,” Mara noted dryly.

            “Oh aye. She also said she wouldn’t do it again because while it looks scary, burning hair smells like shit.” Alistair grinned broadly, showing ivory teeth in surprisingly good shape for a man who hailed from a ‘barbarian’ people. “Worse ways to get an honour-mark, because some of them are definitely a back-handed compliment.”

            “I’ll be careful to avoid such an honour-mark,” she responded, still dryly.

            “Please do. It’s always awkward when a man kills someone for insulting his wife.” Maric’s younger son smiled down at her and for a moment, Mara felt a flash of almost-desire, like a flower on the edge of blooming if it got a little more sunlight. Alistair _could_ be someone she found attractive, like Rory Gilmore after five years of knowing him or Dairren, with whom she felt comfortable after a night’s talk.

            They fell into a companionable silence, Mara eventually laying her head against Alistair’s arm to see how it felt. Aside from rock-hard – very little fat on her husband – he was warm and smelt of honest sweat, furs in need of a good brushing and airing, and dried pine needles of all things. It didn’t feel as bad as she thought it would, though she certainly didn’t feel _comfortable_. Not yet, but maybe soon.

            Fergus had no idea how long it had taken for her to steel herself against the casual touching that was prevalent in the world, from handshakes to hugs, when everyone took offence at her flinching. Avvar, it seemed, weren’t a physically demonstrative people – or Alistair had sensed her personal space and tried to stay out of it. He was exquisitely aware of other people’s body language in a way she envied, moving amongst the camp to soothe a riled temper or commiserate with a bitter warrior, and actually managed to make Cailan see sense in a way no one else could. Naming him Teyrn had been in as much recognition of that quality, so essential to a leader, as it had been for his actual strategic prowess.

            “I will need to leave most of the warband at Honnleath,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “I may be named Teyrn by the Alamarri, but the Avvar will take it amiss if someone promised to the Grey Wardens arrives on their doorstep with an army even with the Blight in tow.”

            “The Avvar will need to march under someone’s direction,” she murmured. “No one ever won a war by committee.”

            “Aye,” Alistair said grimly and in his cold tone, Mara heard the voice of Hakkon Wintersbreath, lord of snow and steel. She shivered, a finger of ice crawling down her spine, and wondered if there was truth in the old stories of the Alamarri gods… or if they were demons instead.

            _Maker help us if they decide to raid while fighting the Blight,_ she thought. _And Andraste forgive us if the Uasal Ard takes us for enemies._


	12. In the Hold of the Stone-Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for fantastic racism.

Thane Svarah Sun-Hair was a stern woman in the prime of her life with a few fine scars, a wry glint to her eye and a stubborn mouth that could put Loghain’s chin to shame. Allied with nearby Red-Lion Hold (which Alistair’s first wife Eileen apparently came from), she had a steadier temper and longer view of things than Cailan would have expected from an Avvar, preferring diplomacy and trading to simply donning the woad and heading lowland to raid for things. His younger brother (the word ‘little’ could hardly apply to a man with three inches of height and thirty pounds of muscle on the King of Ferelden) spoke very humbly in her presence as Mara Cousland and the Auger (a shaman who briefly became possessed by benevolent spirits when the Thane needed advice) went over the treaty. Even though they were technically bound by it under the signature of Maferath the Betrayer ( _not_ a byname he should use up here), the Avvar held that nothing lasted forever – not a Hold, not a god, not a marriage and definitely not a treaty.

            Locked out of the discussion, a turn of events he was used to, but unable to barge in as was his wont, Cailan looked around, still trying to get used to seeing with only one eye. A darkspawn’s blade had sliced down his face, some grace of the Maker sparing him the taint but claiming his eye as payment. That was fine by Cailan. Dying by the Blight was a horrible way to go.

            There were a few pretty Avvar ladies, none of whom gave more than a disinterested glance at the lowlander with the big sword he could likely barely use. Cailan’s status of ‘King’ meant jackshit up here, the only thing that mattered being his relationship to Alistair. As his bastard brother entered the Hold, he greeted at least three people by name, making an obscure Avvar joke that left the Auger squawking like an old hen as the other two laughed. The tension had fled Alistair’s shoulders on being allowed to enter the Hold with Mara, Wynne, Daveth, Morrigan and Cailan; he was more or less home, though to hear Alistair tell it Ramhold was about two days’ walk from Orzammar.

            The story eventually petered out, Alistair’s final words dropping into Svarah’s silence like pebbles into a well too deep to hear the splash, but Cailan’s court-attuned instincts could sense the attention of every Avvar upon them. Even Mara and the Auger fell quiet, the Cousland girl’s face tense as it always was, with perhaps a little more worry in the purse of her lips.

            “I never thought even the Alamarri such fools,” she eventually observed with a sigh. “To court civil war while a Blight strikes at their southern flank…”

            “The last time Blight struck the world, Thane, Ferelden didn’t exist as a nation,” Mara Cousland pointed out quietly. “ _I_ believed when the Griffin Seal was broken in Orzammar and Warden-Commander Duncan stepped up requests for recruits and tithes, but few amongst the Uasal Ard knew such things existed, let alone heralded a Blight.”

            Svarah’s mouth quirked to the side. “And how did _you_ , a mere slip of a girl, know such things where your elders did not?”

            Mara raised her chin in that proud Cousland manner, reminding Cailan that once, his ancestor Calenhad scrubbed the floors of a dog-kennel when the Couslands reigned as independent teyrns. Humility was a new and unpleasant experience for Cailan, one he was getting used to.

            “Because _I_ was learning the Teanga Rúnda and the Teanga Nua when other children were simply mastering the basics of the written word,” she responded coolly.

            Svarah’s mouth quirked again. “You pronounce them correctly, I’ll grant you that,” the Thane conceded.

            “For those wondering what I’m talking about, the Rúnda is the language of shamans, skalds and the wise,” Mara announced, looking at Cailan and Daveth. “The Nua is the language we call ‘Old Alamarri’.”

            Daveth responded in a language with the cadences of Old Alamarri but more lilting, his choice of words drawing a smirk from Morrigan and a mocking retort – delivered with a florid Orlesian-style bow – from Mara. Alistair dropped in his own comment, one that wiped the grin from the Warden’s face and earned a raised eyebrow from Svarah.

            “This one is your wife then?” she asked of Alistair. “With a Blight on, you took the time to steal her?”

            Alistair’s tone was as dry as the Western Approach in Orlais. “Mara’s an alliance-bride in the Alamarri way of things. You know the story of how I was brought to Ramhold?” At Svarah’s nod, he looked to Cailan. “It seems that my father was King Maric Ar Moira O Theirin of Ferelden. My brother had few friends in Ostagar and at the time, sought to try and pay honour-price to the Couslands of Highever after they were slaughtered for following his commands, so I agreed to marry her.”

            Svarah finally looked at Cailan and he inclined his head, one ruling monarch greeting another in her territory. “Cailan Ar Rowan O Theirin at your service, my lady,” he greeted with a smile he knew could charm the skirts off most women. “Lady Cousland and I are under sword-oath to aid the Wardens in their fulfilment of the treaties owed to them, forsaking all other duties until it is done.”

            “You put the Blight above your throne?” Svarah asked, eyes narrowed.

            He nodded to her comfortable chair. “A throne is a dreadfully heavy thing, not worth clinging to when the darkspawn attack. My own idiocy in trying to play games with the Ciriane led to half the bloody trouble in Ferelden, but too many of the Uasal Ard look to another Landsmeet instead of to the Blight. If I wind up kissing the headman’s bride, it can damned well wait until _after_ the treaties are gathered.”

            “It takes a smarter man than he knows to admit when he’s made a mistake,” Svarah noted quietly. “What caused the other half?”

            “My brother retreating from Ostagar instead of reinforcing Teyrn Loghain’s force, which held the Grey Wardens, so they could both withdraw,” Mara answered flatly. “We have five Wardens in all of Ferelden.”

            “And you, who knew something of what it meant, couldn’t advise your brother otherwise?”

            “I had departed with Alistair and Warden Daveth the day before to gather more forces to deal with both Rendon Howe, whose slaughter of my family led to the start of the civil war.” Mara’s tone was flat in her way but firm. She stared at Svarah with that wide falcon’s gaze.

            “Your wife’s a little falcon, isn’t she?” Svarah noted to Alistair with a glint of amusement in her eye.

            “Aye, she is, a peregrine in human form,” Alistair answered with a quick grin.

            “Pity she’s a lowlander…” Svarah sighed, shaking her head. “Avvar don’t get involved in civil wars, lad, and _you_ should know better. There should be _six_ Wardens, not five.”

            “You speak to the Tiarna na Marú, acclaimed by the Alamarri after victory in battle,” Mara answered, her voice now cold as blizzard-struck iron. “Twice our number in darkspawn attacked three nights out of Ostagar, breaching the willow-woven spear-wall but beaten back with bloodied blades, only a third of the warband spilling heart-wine on blighted ground. With spear and shield first did the Chasind acclaim Alistair Ar Fiona ac Maric O Ramhold, then the Walled Elvhen, the Alamarri and even those of the Grey as Teyrn, the title earned in battle’s fury.”

            Cailan lifted his chin. “We aren’t asking you to fight in our civil war. We’re asking you to march, when the time comes, against the darkspawn that threatens us all.”

            “I had wondered at the willow spears you carry,” Svarah mused softly. “Alistair O Ramhold, tell me true, is it as they say?”

            Cailan’s brother lifted those polished-sovereign eyes to Svarah’s keen gaze. “That I was named Teyrn or that we seek only warriors against the Blight?”

            “Both.”

            “Aye. Were it up to me, I’d marry Mara properly up here, find Cailan a wife for his current marriage should have ended years ago from the sound of it, and leave the bloody lowlanders to their damned war.” Alistair’s mouth twisted wryly. “But my wife is the daughter of an Alamarri Teyrn, born to be a Thane herself, and she’ll not leave her folk to the darkspawn or the depredations of those with less honour. My brother is a King and would right the mistakes he has made, answering to the Uasal Ard – apparently most of whom haven’t the wit to wipe their arses after shitting themselves, let alone run a Hold – for the foolishness of giving the Ciriane a possible opening to return because they thought him a boy, not a ruler despite voting him in.”

            Svarah sat back in her throne, expression a mystery. “What you ask can’t be answered by one Hold alone, Alistair O Ramhold.”

            “No, it can’t.” Alistair’s jaw was set.

            “The treaties command the Avvar to war under the leadership of a Teyrn,” the Auger spoke quietly for the first time.

            “I _know_ that,” Svarah said testily to the mage. Then she looked to Alistair. “Where’s the rest of the warband, oh Lord of the Slaughter?”

            “In Honnleath, the last village in Alamarri lands before we come to your Hold,” Alistair answered quietly. “We drove darkspawn from there and battled a demon bound by shaman-born’s pride, freeing a child of Korth bound into the very flesh of the Stone itself.”

            The recruitment of Shale, who joined them mostly out of boredom and a desire to not be shat upon by more birds, didn’t quite go like that but Cailan admitted Alistair’s version sounded much better than reality.

            “Darkspawn, so close?” Svarah looked shaken.

            “Aye.” Alistair folded his arms and looked at Svarah. “Send messages to the Holds. We must meet at Skyhold, to name a Teyrn and prepare for the Blight.”

            “You, who don’t even have a legend-mark, command a Thane to run errands?” Svarah’s tone should have turned Alistair’s balls to little blocks of ice.

            “I, named Teyrn – even if only in the lowlands – remind the Thane of her duty to the treaties,” Alistair responded in the frighteningly mild tone Cailan remembered from their father’s angriest.

            “You cocky little streak of dog shit,” the Thane growled. “Think you’ll be named Teyrn?”

            “So long as it isn’t Movran the Under,” Daveth drawled sardonically.

            “More chance of Storvacker being named Teyrn than the Thane of Underhold!” Svarah retorted hotly, showing the Avvar temper at last.

            “Well send out the messages to the other Holds before he gets ideas,” Alistair suggested calmly.

            “I will do so,” the Auger agreed. “We will need a Teyrn in the days to come.”

            The shaman looked at Cailan. “Does your brother answer to you, King of the Alamarri?”

            Cailan burst out laughing. Then he stopped when he realised the question was seriously meant. “My brother is more of a warrior… and a general… than I am,” he admitted with a touch of bitterness. “Aside from some advice from Warden-Commander Duncan and Ser Cauthrien, Alistair runs our little band of warriors and Wardens.”

            The shaman nodded, his expression opaque, and left the hall to go do whatever rites an Avvar apostate did to warn other Holds a political shitstorm was about to begin.

            “It seems I must give hospitality to you and your warband,” Svarah said _most_ reluctantly. “How many are there?”

            “Six hundred or so warriors, five Wardens – one of whom is shaman-born, three more shaman-born, one of whom is with us,” Alistair nodded to Wynne, who’d remained serene and silent, “And fifty camp followers, mostly Walled Elvhen but with a cleric of Andraste who knows something of herbs and my wife amongst them.”

            “We have our own supplies,” Mara said quickly as Svarah looked… startled, perhaps even perturbed. “At most a little salt, bread and mead would be welcome.”

            “Your life as surety for their actions,” Svarah said to Alistair. “If they commit blasphemy or slay someone-“

            “My life as surety,” Cailan interrupted her. Alistair was necessary and Mara held too much knowledge, but he was somewhat superfluous. “And I hope that you will at least warn our soldiers they are committing blasphemy before you execute me – and them.”

            Svarah regarded him with some surprise before nodding slowly. “So be it, son of Maric.”

            Cailan took a deep breath and hoped that none of the warband were Chantry zealots or he would be very dead, very soon, and Ferelden would lose a potential ally against the darkspawn.


	13. The Temple of Sacred Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for fantastic racism, violence and death. I have a particular head-canon for templars and the non-mage children of mages to explain why Carver has the templar specialisation even as a Warden.

“The way to Haven is too narrow for an entire warband. We’d be strung out like beads on a string, easy prey for the heretics’ shaman-born to eliminate us. A smaller group would have better luck in reaching the village unseen, but they would need to be our heavy-hitters.”

            Alistair gestured at the route to Haven on the goatskin map provided by Svarah Sun-Hair, who’d resigned herself to summoning the other Thanes to Skyhold with Cailan standing surety for the actions of the warband. His brother was working double-time on charming the proud Thane of Stone-Bear Hold, the charisma that Mara claimed was a gift to them from some past Auger slowly wearing away the Avvar’s reserve. Cailan had his faults, it was true, but he had come of age in a court and picked up some skills by osmosis, if nothing else.

            “Leliana and I have to go with you,” Mara announced firmly as the Seeker, who was apparently much more open-minded than Alistair expected when faced with the ways of Stone-Bear Hold, nodded. The redhead, who’d admitted to being a Ciriane bard in another life, openly wore her black armour with the open eye on it and fought with a powerful recurved bow. She also told the soldiers and servants of the warband that Cailan’s life and the future of Ferelden depended on their actions and that if anyone misbehaved, they had best pray the Avvar killed them before _she_ did – because amongst other things, she’d see them excommunicated from the Chantry, which was like an Avvar being shunned. “I know old Alamarri ciphers and _she_ knows the Chantry-specific ones.”

            “There are also relics that might be reclaimed,” Leliana added in her sweet voice.

            The Avvar looked at her calmly. “We will be reclaiming Ladyhold for the Sky Watchers. If the Chantry wants access to the site, they will have to negotiate with them.”

            “That won’t go down well with the Grand Clerics,” Wynne noted with a sigh. She was devoutly Andrastean despite being a Circle shaman-born, though she and Leliana got on well.

            “Fuck the Grand Clerics,” Garrett Hawke, pleased as punch to be openly using his magic, retorted curtly. For that they were both healers, the two had very different personalities, appropriate as Wynne used the magics of earth while Garrett called fire to his hand.

            “If there are shaman-born, we’ll need Carver,” Alistair said, nodding to Daveth. “He knows how to suppress their magic.”

            According to Wynne, the templars needed to ingest lyrium to use their abilities, but Garrett and his brother both claimed that being the non-mage child of a shaman-born was enough. They belonged to something called the Mages’ Collective, which was a group of free shaman-born who followed the Chantry rules on magic but didn’t answer to the Circles. Wynne was guardedly in approval of them while Leliana looked intrigued. It also seemed the Mages’ Collective had contacts amongst the Chasind shamans as Rogvir, a half-Avvar, half-Chasind man of the Salmon Clan, claimed to know Garrett’s father as a son of the Hawk clan taken from his mother after she wed a plains-dweller. Lothering was a small town in more ways than one.

            “Fair ‘nough,” Daveth agreed. “Wynne going with or staying?”

            “Going with. We don’t need Garrett and Carver having a pissing match,” Mara said ruefully, looking at the two men pointedly. The Hawke brothers pretended to ignore her, as they did whenever someone pointed out their sibling rivalry.

            “So you, Leliana, Carver, Milady Mara and Wynne,” Daveth continued musingly. “If you can talk Morrigan into it, take her. She knows magics the shamans an’ Circle mages don’t and is a pretty powerful mage.”

            “I’ll do it,” Mara announced, pushing away from the table. “She’s asked us to find a grimoire of Flemeth’s when we go to Kinloch Hold and I’ll point out that gives her a certain obligation to help us in this particular goal.”

            The Cousland and the daughter of Flemeth got on surprisingly well as both found many of the customs of people strange and frankly ridiculous and shared a love of secret knowledge. Having a history as descendants of the Cousland who begged Bann Conobar to spare Osen and the Witch who showed mercy for that honour perhaps played a part in it as well.

            He watched his wife leave the hall with a smile before turning his attention back to the battle-plan. “Two warriors, two shaman-born and two skirmishers makes for a good vanguard,” he said quietly. “I want a secondary group to cover our back – Garrett, Shale and Daveth to lead them – and a rear-guard under the command of Duncan and with Bethany or Jowan amongst them.”

            Daveth nodded. Though remnants of the wisecracking thief remained, he had settled into his role of Warden-Constable well enough, Cauthrien sharing the duties when they came to strategy. Duncan was… fragile… with the loss of his wife and the revelation she had likely sought her death because of the taint.

            “We go two hours before dawn,” Alistair announced. “Any questions?”

            The core of the warband shook their heads, each of them knowing what to do, and broke up. Alistair rubbed his forehead, wondering if all warleaders suffered such headaches, and went to inform Svarah of their plan in case they failed and Stone-Bear Hold had to deal with an enraged cult of heretics.

            She listened over a cup of mead, nodding when Alistair made a good point and advising him of potential flaws, until they had beaten out most of the dents in the plan. “What of the high dragon?” she pointed out.

            “I have no quarrel with the beast,” he said carefully. “Though…”

            “Though?”

            “I will advise the Wardens take her on as practice for slaying the archdemon.”

            “No seeking glory for yourself?” Svarah asked amusedly. She seemed to think he was a cocky young fool seeking to make himself Teyrn of the Avvar as well as of the Alamarri.

            She was right, because the Avvar and Alamarri would need to march as one under a single commander, but Alistair didn’t think of himself as cocky. A young fool, grasping for the stars because nothing less would save them, but not cocky. He knew the price of failure here.

            “Fuck glory,” he said curtly. “We need those Ashes to cure a lowland lord who might be useful, or as a hedge for those who might fall conveniently sick otherwise, but I’m reclaiming Ladyhold for our people.”

            “Which, if you succeed, will be a powerful argument for making you Teyrn,” she observed.

            “Yes,” he admitted. “We need to march under one commander, Avvar and Alamarri alike, and I was raised to fight darkspawn.”

            “Why you and not someone else?”

            “Because until now, the Thanes have been content to sit on their arses and leave Ladyhold in the hands of heretics. I think I will tell Seeker Leliana to take her relics and the Ashes to the Chantry, because they are what is sacred to the Andrasteans, so that we can reclaim Ladyhold without needing to destroy them.”

            Svarah’s eyebrow shot up. “You trust Leliana?”

            “Not a whit. But I intend to show her that an Exalted March against the Avvar would be a _very_ bad idea.”

            Svarah nodded slowly. “Good point. The Ciriane are… flighty, like songbirds, but with a deadly sting. Be wary, son of Maric, lest you wind up like your brother and ruing the game you’ve played with them.”

            Alistair changed the subject. “How is Cailan?”

            “Charming,” Svarah admitted dryly. “There’s good steel in him if it can be honed.”

            “If you can, show him how to be a good Thane,” Alistair requested quietly. “Half of my brother’s problem is that his wife was raised so and not he, then she wouldn’t take the time to teach him because she holds to power.”

            “I will try,” Svarah promised, rather swiftly. “A competent Alamarri King would be a pleasant change.”

            Alistair grinned and decided not to share that information with Cailan. His brother’s self-esteem was still poor and he took offence at the strangest things. “Thank you,” was all he said as he nodded and left to get some rest. Tomorrow would be a harsh day.

…

Alistair was grateful that Leliana and Wynne couldn’t speak the Nua as Mara cheerfully agreed to taint the Ashes of Andraste for Kolgrim. They didn’t need the two Andrasteans starting a fight over something that Alistair had no intention of doing; he may think rather poorly of the Chantry, but he didn’t like to ruin anything another person held sacred, even relics of Andraste. Leliana was already gleeful over her discovery of some ancient papers from Andraste’s time that the Chantry would want.

            So they walked past the high dragon as she slept and into the Temple, once home to the Priestesses and their falcons, and now possessed by a Guardian who Leliana claimed was Havard, Maferath’s Aegis, and ash wraiths – souls who gladly bound themselves to the soil and fire to protect ancient spots.

            The Guardian looked each of them in the eye, questioning each person on their most secret sin or fear. “Alistair, son of Maric,” the spirit intoned, regarding the Avvar-trained warrior. “Is it arrogance, necessity or a wish to equal your father that drives you to become Teyrn of the Avvar?”

            Alistair smiled coldly at the spirit. This was no god of his people. “Maric is dust, dead and done, and a bigger fool than many think,” he said bluntly. “He left the Alamarri in a sorry state and now my kin pay the price of his sins.”

            The Guardian looked taken aback. “You have no doubts about your course of action?” he asked.

            “All men have doubts. But I am the only one who can unite Avvar and Alamarri under one banner against the darkspawn, so call it necessity if it makes you feel better, Guardian.” Alistair raised his chin with pride. “When we are done here, you can take the Ashes and go with Leliana. This is the most sacred place of the Lady of the Skies and when Andraste chose the Maker, she lost any right to Ladyhold.”

            “’There is no god but the Maker’,” the Guardian began, only to be cut off by Alistair’s chop of the hand.

            “If Andraste sung down the Maker as shaman-born do when our old gods die, she was a fool not to give your Chantry the songs it needed to return him. We cleansed the cult you damned fools brought to our sacred places and the Avvar will have their due.”

            The Guardian turned, hot-eyed, to regard Leliana. “You allow this, Seeker? Do your so-called visions from the Maker counsel you to accept this?”

            “The Chantry as it is teaches that the Maker loves us all, yet they have stricken verses that speak of Shartan and show no love for the non-human and the mage, the sick and the lame, the weary and old,” Leliana retorted, a quaver in her voice. “I can’t say as I agree with Alistair but I am one amongst many. Perhaps the Chant needs to be sung anew to return the Maker to us, for swords and blood haven’t brought many adherents to it.”

            “The Mountain-Father sounds much like Elgar’nan, Father-God of the Elves, who yet sounds like the Maker,” Mara observed quietly. “Perhaps there are many names for the one god.”

            “And you, Lady Cousland, abandon your kin twice to…what? Prove that all your reading is useful?” the Guardian countered, turning on his wife. “Your brother would unite Ferelden against the darkspawn yet you gallivant around the Frostbacks instead of going to Redcliffe as promised.”

            Mara went white and then a deep scarlet with rage. It was the most emotion Alistair had ever seen on her face. “You ask questions I have asked of myself a thousand times,” she responded in a voice like blizzard-touched dwarven steel. “I have regrets, I have doubts. But like you, Havard the Aegis, I am under sword-oath to take a particular path and forsake all other duties. If we don’t focus on the darkspawn, the only one left to sing to the Maker will be the fucking archdemon!”

            The Guardian actually stepped back in the face of Mara’s sheer anger and Alistair’s hand tightened around his sword. He would fight this god if he had to.

            “You are bound to the Ashes,” Mara continued in the Nua, voice dropping to the faint whine of a blizzard through the cracks in a hall at the heart of winter. The hoarseness in her voice was ever-present, though it had evened out somewhat. “When they depart, Havard, so shall you. Give your counsel to the Divine, for she sorely needs it.”

            Alistair looked from the corner of his eye and saw Morrigan’s hands gesturing, concealed by Carver’s broad bulk. What plan had his wife cooked up?

            Havard looked livid but seemed unable to do anything but nod tightly. “Very well. But I will return one day and on that day, the fires of heaven will fall upon all therein, released by the traitor of old.”

            “You will only return if the Ashes do,” Mara murmured quietly. “I have a feeling they won’t stray too far from the Divine’s side.”

            “Then you best keep the Divine far from here.” The Guardian faded away. “Go, see if you can pass the tests of the faithful.”

            Alistair found himself facing a shadow of all his fears, as did the others, while Mara and Leliana easily solved the puzzles and riddles between them. When they came to a particular archway, Mara gasped, “Father?” while others called on names known to them. Alistair saw no one.

            Then they entered the inner sanctum and after quiet discussion amongst themselves, Leliana – stripped as they all were – passed through the fire to collect the Urn of Sacred Ashes.

            Alistair was more interested in covertly looking at his wife, frowning at what he saw. She was too thin, even for her small size, and wicked lightning scars on her back he knew nothing about marred pale skin. But otherwise she was fine-boned with wiry muscle, much like an elvhen.

            Carver was not very discreetly ogling Morrigan, who looked bored with the entire situation, and Alistair had to admit she was very lovely. Flawless skin, a figure to make a throat dry with desire… But he thought her too curvaceous and dark-haired, like a crow. He preferred falcons.

            Leliana emerged with the Ashes, passing again through the fire as the Guardian manifested, weary-eyed. “Pray you never see me again,” he warned. “For on that day…”

            “Yes, fire from sky, all of that,” Alistair interrupted impatiently. “Can we go now?”

            Havard faded away as Leliana regarded him coldly. “You should have more respect,” the Seeker chided.

            “I’m cold, hungry and I want to make sure this cult is dealt with,” he retorted. “He’s your holy figure, not mine.”

            It was a chilly walk back to the reclaimed Ladyhold, where a hidden scholar Mara identified as Brother Genitivi was being tended to by Garrett. His wife was promptly by the old man’s side – they apparently knew each other – as they discussed what happened.

            Alistair took himself off to be alone for a while. He needed to plan the next stage of his campaign carefully, because the next stop would be Skyhold. Imhar the Clever give him a silver tongue or the Avvar would be lost forever.


	14. Promises and Thanks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for discussion of graphic violence and fantastic racism.

Under Wynne’s ministrations, Brother Genitivi healed quickly though the limp from an untended broken leg was permanent. Mara gladly ceded her horse to the old scholar as the mountain trails that the Avvar used weren’t conducive to wagons and found herself riding on Daveth’s horse as the half-Chasind Warden ranged ahead, using the eyes of beast and bird to scout their way to Skyhold. She finally discovered the reason for his peculiarly reverent attitude towards her: it seemed Daveth had been falsely (for once) accused of stealing in Highever and her father saved him from the noose. Of course, it didn’t deter the Warden from a life of crime, but it did make him develop a certain amount of respect for the Couslands. Alistair seemed relieved; her husband might be willing to allow her to find his bed at her own pace but like many of the Avvar, he believed staunchly in monogamy during a marriage (unless apparently negotiated beforehand) and so Daveth’s reverence concerned him.

            Leliana remained on foot, the Urn of Sacred Ashes lashed to her back. The Seeker’s premonitions increased and saved the travellers twice, once from an avalanche and the other from an ambush of Underhold warriors, of whom Alistair, Daveth and Svarah spoke contemptuously. Stripped of their weapons, the warriors were dispatched to their Thane Movran the Under to see him come to Skyhold for the naming of a new Teyrn.

            Thane Svarah’s attitude to Alistair had warmed noticeably since he pulled off his boast of reclaiming Ladyhold for the Avvar shamans. Mara and Morrigan exchanged glances: the vein of raw lyrium that ran beneath the Temple likely played a part in the Ashes’ curative powers and Havard’s continued existence as the Guardian, so it had been child’s play for Morrigan to break that connection and bind him to the Ashes instead. It was something close to blasphemy but Leliana _had_ agreed to take the relics and be gone.

            Wynne was talking to the Auger, gesturing gracefully with her fine healer’s hands, and Cailan was attempting to compliment Morrigan when Daveth wasn’t flirting with her. The witch seemed more amused than offended at their attentions, though a tiny crackle of lightning aimed at their feet certainly taught them manners when they overstepped the mark. Cailan had grown up since Ostagar, as if losing an eye had granted him some measure of wisdom.

            Cauthrien and Carver remained behind to oversee the army if something went wrong, so that Wardens would yet remain. Both seemed relieved to be not dealing with Avvar beyond trading and scouting with them, mostly because Cauthrien was a devout Andrastean and Carver was uncomfortable with his brother taking to Avvar magic like a duck to water. Jowan, who knew the magic of the Joining, and Duncan had joined Daveth on this long trip to an ancient fortress.

            “It’s interesting how the Avvar view Maferath and Andraste,” Genitivi finally said, breaking Mara’s reverie. The old scholar, a priceless treasure in this age of wilful ignorance, was bundled up in the warmest furs Mara could find. “To them, Maferath is almost worthy of veneration and Andraste a heretic for turning away from their traditional gods.”

            “Maferath fought for homeland and Andraste for faith,” Mara observed quietly.

            “Indeed, Lady Cousland.” The old man sighed and rubbed his aching leg. “I’m glad the Ashes were found. Arl Eamon is an honourable man, worthy of saving.”

            Mara felt otherwise as the man had cobbled together the alliance that defeated her father at the Landsmeet which chose the King. Throw in his bringing in of several Orlesian traditions, like concentrating skilled craftsmen in the castle instead of the village and demanding that the farmers pay unchanging monthly dues instead of a set percentage of their harvest once a year… She would even grant that Isolde’s condescending attitude to the strange, cold-eyed daughter of Teyrn Cousland played a part in her dislike of the Arl. But she was realistic on the fact that the Guerrins would be needed.

            “Once, you would have pestered me with questions about the travels I’ve had,” Genitivi continued with a slight smile. “Has your old age taught you silence and sombreness?”

            “How long did the Haven heretics hold you?” Mara asked, wanting the answer before she snapped his head off.

            “Three months I fear,” Genitivi answered sadly. “They killed my assistant and sent one of their mages to masquerade as him.”

            “Then I regret to inform you that Arl Rendon Howe slaughtered most of Castle Cousland shortly after you were taken,” Mara said bitterly. “I went to Ostagar looking for justice, found myself married to Prince Alistair, who was raised in secret by the Avvar because his mother was a Grey Warden, and everything went downhill from there – aside from my wedding to Alistair, of course.”

            Genitivi’s face paled and he reached out with a gnarled, ink-stained hand to touch her knee sympathetically. “Oh, my Lady Cousland, I am so very, very sorry,” he said mournfully.

            Mara felt the tears sting her eyes again. “It gets better. Fergus withdrew from Ostagar instead of supporting Teyrn Loghain, who had most of the Grey Wardens in his force, and we lost all but Jowan and Duncan because Daveth was with us and Cauthrien and Carver underwent their Joining after we left Ostagar with a force to deal with Howe.”

            “’Oh, the tangled webs mortals weave’,” Genitivi breathed, quoting from the _Fall of House Elstan and Rise of House Cousland,_ the chronicle which told the story of Mara’s own family’s origins.

            “Yes. That’s why Cailan and I are here, because we’ve sworn on sword-oath to aid the Wardens in gathering their treaties,” Mara continued. “Cailan stands surety with his life for the behaviour of the army while they’re in Avvar territory… and I am one of the few who can translate the treaties accurately.”

            “The Blight must take precedence,” Genitivi agreed grimly. “I have been to the Western Approach, the Hissing Wastes and even the Anderfels, Lady Cousland. It would break my heart to see green Ferelden, home of Andraste Herself, become a Blighted wasteland.”

            “You’re not the only one,” Mara pointed out flatly. “Damn whatever demon whispered sweet nothings into Rendon Howe’s ear.”

            “I think those demons would be called ambition and envy,” Genitivi said sadly.

            “Cailan trying to play political games with the Orlesians didn’t help either.”

            The scholar shook his head sorrowfully. “It sounds like you are trying to find someone to blame, Lady Cousland, when it’s the failings of mortals that led to this sorrow.”

            Mara sucked in a sharp breath, reminding herself that what was a very real, still-lingering agony to her was nothing more than sad news and something for the history books to the Brother. Dropping a curt nod to him, she nudged the sides of Daveth’s slab-sided gelding, forcing the disgruntled beast into a half-trot that brought her to where Alistair walked with Svarah.

            “How goes riding Crowbait?” Alistair asked dryly. He hadn’t approved of Mara giving her horse to Genitivi.

            “Better than talking to the Brother,” Mara retorted waspishly. “Chantry scholars are always so bloody… _passive_.”

            “That one only deals with tales when the blood and tears have been washed away by the long years,” Svarah observed quietly.

            “Not always. He’s travelled all over Thedas…” Mara sighed, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. Today I’m just… not in a good mood.”

            “Alistair tells me that you lost most of your family in a raid on your Hold,” Svarah said.

            “Something like that.” Mara was sick and tired of repeating the story of her kin’s demise when Rendon Howe was probably digging in, laughing his bloody head off. “I also know that the Blight comes first.”

            “A bitter honour in your decision,” Svarah told her. “I also hear you talked the Guardian into leaving the Temple so we could reclaim it for the Lady of the Skies.”

            “I had some help,” Mara admitted quietly. “I can’t predict how the Chantry will react, even with the Ashes to their hand.”

            “Ladyhold was traditionally open to anyone, like the trade-city before Orzammar,” Alistair said quietly. “If the Chantry is wise, they will respect that tradition and may sing down their Maker so long as they harm no one.”

            Svarah regarded the young man sardonically. “The Chantry, especially where the Ciriane are involved, is rarely wise.”

            Mara lifted her chin in Leliana’s direction. “She might be able to change that. Seekers have a lot of leeway in their decisions and they answer only to the Divine.”

            “The Seekers tried to recruit my Mara,” Alistair explained. “Thankfully, she’s too wise for them.”

            “My father wasn’t about to hand over one of his children without a damned good reason,” Mara pointed out ruefully. “Especially since after me, Mother wasn’t capable of bearing more, and Fergus had health problems as a child.”

            “And before you ask, I get the impression that even if Alamarri didn’t marry for life, her father wouldn’t have ended the marriage with her mother but would have stolen her again,” Alistair added as Svarah opened her mouth to speak.

            The Thane of Stone-Bear Hold closed her mouth and Mara sighed in relief. Hopefully she wouldn’t say something about tempting the gods or anything. Her already meagre store of diplomacy was truly wearing thin by now.

            “I never would have expected an Alamarri to be familiar with the old ways,” the Thane finally observed after a while. “Well, someone in the Uasal Ard. Calenhad forced most of them to convert to the Chantry, if I recall.”

            “That he did,” Mara confirmed. “Our oldest laws were written in Old Alamarri – the Teanga Nua – so I was able to convince Father that being fluent in the old runes would be a benefit to the Couslands.”

            Svarah’s eyebrow shot up. “So you pursued the knowledge for political benefit?”

            “No!” Mara’s denial shot out like a bird taking flight, startling the two Avvar. “I love knowledge for its own sake but I had to get my family to agree for me to pursue the old stories with Sister Dorcas Guerrin _somehow._ And you can’t argue with the result when I can translate the treaties better than anyone here other than your shaman.”

            “I could, only because my kinfolk will march to war,” Svarah said grimly. “I know it’s necessary, girl, but I can’t love it.”

            “And I wish a Blight wasn’t going on so I could nail Rendon Howe to a tree, yank out his guts, wrap them around a thornbush and have Daveth invite in several hungry scavengers,” Mara retorted acidly.

            Svarah suddenly grinned. “You part-Chasind? Sounds like something they’d do.”

            “You make that sound like a bad thing,” Daveth observed with a grin as he came trotting up.

            “Well, being part-Chasind _did_ produce you,” Alistair noted with a matching grin.

            “Just because I’m going to be voted the Paragon of Good fuckin’ Looks when we get to Orzammar doesn’t mean you need to be insulting,” Daveth countered smoothly.

            “In what demonic fever dream did that happen?” Alistair asked amusedly.

            “Mine, of course.” Daveth gestured north. “So I think we’re near Skyhold, if it’s the big-arse fortress over the next mountain.”

            They climbed the trail, excitement communicating a certain sense of urgency throughout the weary band, and were met with one of the most incredible views to surely exist in Thedas.

            Skyhold was a tall fortress, large enough to hold an army or three that earned its name with the highest tower, even ruined, touching the cold blue hem of the sky’s robes. Mara saw the graceful lines of elven architecture beneath the stone facing of some other occupier and raised her hand to shade her eyes.

            “Balak O Skyhold ruled from here as Teyrn,” Alistair said in awe, joining her. “And when the famine which struck our people was over, he stepped down as was proper, as I or whoever becomes warleader of the Avvar will do.”

            “Balak raided into the Bannorn and started a famine which led to the instability of the Theirin bloodline under Arland, which saw the Grey Wardens kicked out when they rebelled under Sophia Dryden, and which eventually led to the Orlesian invasion,” Mara absently replied, examining the vista before her with a sense of awe.

            “That… is useful to know,” Alistair observed quietly. “If you can quote stories about it, even better.”

            Mara looked at him in surprise and her husband smiled grimly. “The Avvar will march to aid the Alamarri. Making the Thanes feel guilty will help significantly.”

            “The Avvar will march to aid the Grey Wardens,” Mara corrected softly.

            His golden eyes gleamed. “Much the same. I can’t see this Howe taking the advance of an Avvar warband into the lowlands sitting down. If he gets in our way and won’t stand down…”

            He touched her shoulder. “Find a thornbush and a tree. Howe will pay for attacking my wife’s kin, I promise.”

            Mara had been venting when she said such a thing – she wasn’t one to take pleasure in a cruel death – but the fervency in his voice warmed her body inside and out. She hoped she wasn’t coming across as being excited by the thought of Rendon Howe dying painfully because she wanted, more than nothing else, to press herself to Alistair and give him a very passionate kiss.

            “Thank you,” she said, taking his mittened hand and holding it instead. “Thank you.”


	15. What Makes an Avvar?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for grief and fantastic racism. The peregrine falcons of the Priestesses in this story do borrow heavily from Mercedes Lackey’s bondbirds in her Valdemar series, but they aren’t telepathic and are more along the lines of dog-smart (mabaris are more intelligent).

Skyhold was a grand fortress, one buried deep in the heart of the Frostbacks and generally abandoned by the Avvar unless they had to meet. A solitary Priestess of the Lady of the Skies generally stayed here, tending the messenger falcons that were apparently more intelligent than most raptors and even ravens, the preferred long-distance messenger bird. Orlaith, the current falconer, was speaking to an oversized Avvar with a hammer that weighed at least half of Duncan’s body weight as the Warden-Commander entered the ruined great hall where the Thanes would meet.

            The two hushed when they saw him, the woad-painted warrior regarding Duncan thoughtfully. For a long agonising moment he imagined Brytta staring back defiantly at him, already calculating the half-dozen ways she could bring him down, five of which were fatal. But Brytta wasn’t coming back, not from the Stone, and he had only the long weary wait until the archdemon rose and he could take the deathblow.

            “My apologies if I interrupted anything,” Duncan said gravely.

            “It was nothing important,” Orlaith responded. “Can we help you?”

            “I was just looking around,” the half-Rivaini admitted with a sigh.

            “You are the Warden-Commander, yes?” the giant Avvar asked.

            “I am,” Duncan answered grimly. He was until Cauthrien was sufficiently trained to take the job.

            “Was it your idea for Alistair O Ramhold to get it in his head to seek the Teyrnship?” the giant demanded forcefully. “There’s a half-dozen Thanes and twice as many Hands of Korth with more experience than he.”

            “Alistair was trained to be a Grey Warden. Circumstances led him to a different path,” Duncan replied cagily. “I know for a fact he held off a darkspawn horde twice the size of his warband and only lost about a third of his own force.”

            “If Alistair were any other Avvar, there would be no concern,” Orlaith observed quietly. “But I have heard a tale that he claims to be the brother of the Alamarri King.”

            “He is,” Duncan confirmed. “I brought him up here because it was either the Avvar or the Chantry and with his mother a Warden-Mage, she’d have killed me if I sent him to the templars.”

            _She still might if she finds out he knows about his ancestry,_ he thought wryly as he added, “Alistair wasn’t meant to know of his heritage. I hadn’t counted on him growing up to look like Cailan’s twin.”

            “That’s as may be, Warden, but what if he wants to be a King amongst the Avvar?” Orlaith’s tone held some justifiable concern. “Even the title of Teyrn is only held so long as a crisis lasts and Blights can last for years.”

            “Even if Alistair wanted that, and I highly doubt it, his new wife is the sister to the Teyrn of Highever and _she_ wouldn’t permit it,” Duncan assured them. “Mara survived a slaughter, travelled alone to Ostagar and has defied her brother to aid the Wardens in claiming the treaties owed to us in a Blight. Alistair might be stubborn, but Mara’s worse and her devotion to Ferelden – the Alamarri – is nigh-absolute.”

            Orlaith’s eyebrow rose. “I’ve heard of a Mara. Sister Dorcas Guerrin, one of the few lowlander Chantry clerics we’ll deal with, claimed she was her best apprentice.”

            “One and the same. The Lady Cousland is one of the few Alamarri, perhaps the only one other than Sister Dorcas, who can read both the Teanga Rúnda and the Teanga Nua,” Duncan told her. “That means she’s the only one aside from your shamans who can translate the Grey Warden treaties accurately.”

            The giant grunted. “There’s the worry Alistair will drag us into the Alamarri civil war.”

            Duncan grimaced. “I’m hoping that will be sorted out by the time we return to the lowlands,” he admitted distastefully. “If the Landsmeet decides to strip Cailan of his crown, then the contenders are Fergus Cousland and Anora Mac Tir.”

            “What of this Rendon Howe, the so-called Lord of the North?” Orlaith asked dryly.

            “I believe Lady Cousland has plans to kill him for the death of her family,” Duncan observed. “He… is the most likely to get in the way of a Warden-led army as he is sceptical of the idea of a Blight.”

            Orlaith and the giant exchanged glances. “Thank you for your honesty,” the latter finally said. “I am Amund, a Sky Watcher of the Lady of the Skies.”

            “Warden-Commander Duncan,” was the half-Rivaini’s reply.

            Amund inclined his head. “Tell your Wardens that we will be honouring the treaties, have no fear. We just need to decide who will lead us.”

            Duncan sighed in relief. “I will do so. Thank you.”

            The Sky Watcher, a warrior-priest as Duncan understood things, nodded again as Orlaith bowed her head and went to tend a rather disgruntled-looking peregrine. The Warden-Commander took himself off. Political machinations amongst the Avvar were none of his concern.

…

The Avvar Thanes were gathered in the great hall, clad in their finest furs and armour, and as a candidate for Teyrnship Alistair stood before them alongside a big man in a goat-horned headdress who was identified as Movran the Under, a bigger man who called himself Amund the Sky Watcher, and a curvaceous, red-haired woman in chainmail named Eileen. On seeing the last candidate, Alistair made a wry face and asked wasn’t holding his balls in her hand for two years enough, now she had to compete for the Teyrnship? To which she retorted that she’d survived as many darkspawn sieges as he and the Alamarri would require a woman’s touch.

            Cailan got the feeling Eileen was Alistair’s ex-wife.

            “It’s like a Landsmeet,” Mara observed quietly from their vantage of the spot for honoured guests. Duncan wore his silverite armour and watched grimly. Cailan avoided looking at his eyes, for in them he saw the empty promise of the grave. Losing Brytta had hit him hard. “Each of the candidates makes their bid and the Thanes, the priests and the shamans decide.”

            “Who are the main contenders?” Cailan asked softly.

            “The Thanes and shamans aren’t permitted to become Teyrn because they already hold power,” Mara continued, watching the proceedings as Movran spoke first, boasting about many raids against the Alamarri, which was to say Ferelden. “The priests – who are the Sky Watchers, the priestesses who tend the sacred birds and places like Skyhold, and the Hands of Korth, who are much like templars – and the lay Avvar may contend for the position. They undergo tests according to legend, tests that prove their endurance, willpower and leadership ability.”

            “I’d be fucked in all three cases,” Cailan admitted sourly.

            “Yes, you would be,” Mara agreed bluntly. At least he always knew where he stood with Lady Cousland. “But Movran was allowed because he’s a Chief, which is to say a regent for the Thane of Underhold, who’s apparently his first wife.”

            “Does he have a hope?”

            “Not bloody likely. Whoever leads the Avvar will likely gather Chasind clansmen to their banner too, and Underhold has apparently raided the Chasind more than once, so there’s a grudge there. And most of the Avvar despise him.”

            “Thank the gods, because he’s a right ass.”

            Mara gave him a smile, tight with strain, and looked as Alistair stepped forward to speak.

            “I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories about me,” the warrior announced calmly, resplendent in freshly polished steel chainmail and his magnificent red-lion fur cloak with its bone totems sewn to the edges. “I’m sure you have concerns that if I become Teyrn, I will lead the Avvar against the Alamarri enemies of my brother and wife, and not just the darkspawn. I hope that by the time we go to the lowlands, for we travel next to Orzammar to gain the treaty owed to the Wardens by the dwarves, my wife’s brother will have Rendon Howe dead as he should be for slaughtering a Hold full of people while the warriors were away. But in this world shaped by Korth and the Lady, I cannot rely on hope but must plan for nightmare. Rendon Howe, according to Warden-Commander Duncan, has long denied the Blight and he will see an Avvar army as a threat. If he gets in our way, we go over him.”

            One of the Thanes, an older man with grey-shot blond hair and a tarnished silver warrior’s fillet around his head, leans forward. “Rendon Howe calls himself Lord of the North, Teyrn of Highever and Arl of Amaranthine. He sent word to the father of my nephew’s bride, Matthias Wulffe, to join him in ‘purging Ferelden of Orlesian influence’, with the strong threat of being judged a traitor like the Couslands of Highever were if he refused.”

            “Thane Owyne Ar Rainne of Redhold, I presume?” Mara asked politely, stepping forward where the council of Thanes could see her.

            “My wife, Mara An Eleanor O Cousland,” Alistair introduced as the Thane looked in the small ash-blonde woman’s direction with a raised eyebrow.

            “Ah,” Thane Owyne simply said as he scrutinised Mara, who was wearing Avvar-style furs instead of her battered blue leathers. “You escaped Howe.”

            “Weeping tears of blood and salt went I, mourning daughter of Eleanor daughter of Fearchar Mac Eanraig, child of she called Seawolf by Alamarri and Ciriane alike, to the field of Ostagar where my brother Fergus, son of Bryce Cousland, child of he called the Shield of the North by Maric the Saviour, fought darkspawn as commanded by Cailan Ar Rowan ac Maric O Theirin, bound by duty dearer than death’s wish to deliver word of vassal’s treachery to the new Teyrn of Highever,” Mara responded, casting her reply in the old poetic style. “Rendon Howe, son of Padraig Howe who gave up Arl’s duty for the vigil of the Grey Wardens, waited until liege-lord’s Tanist went to field of battle under guise of friendship, promising soldiers come by dawn’s red light but instead delivered them through red-blood flame, slaughtering all within castle walls but for the one who could deliver a claim to Highever through forced marriage. So Howe’s butchers spared their blades and fell to arrows from the Seawolf, Bane of the Ciriane upon the Sea, and her unblooded daughter, wise in words but not in world’s ways, until came they to Bryce Cousland, treacherously laid low while sharing friendship’s cup with falsest friend. Teyrn wounded unto death, ever-loyal steadfast bride remaining by his side, sent me with signet ring and word for Fergus, trained in war and acclaimed as leader, to avenge them.”

            She took a deep breath as the Thanes listened, expressions carefully neutral. “Fergus, lord of war blinded by revelations about liege-lord’s attempts to treat with the Ciriane without ceding Alamarri lands that led to Highever’s sorrow, retreated from Ostagar unaware of the Wardens’ true duty and left them with Loghain, Hero of River Dane, to live or die as the tide of war willed. Few live now and I, wise in words and history, pledged myself on sword-oath to aid the Wardens in their duty as a Cousland must. Alistair Ar Fiona ac Maric O Ramhold, ever-faithful husband married to me for brother’s sake, would aid me in that duty. Cailan Ar Rowan ac Maric Theirin stands surety of his own will, his life as weregild, for the sins of the warband that followed us from Ostagar do they blaspheme against the gods or attack the Avvar while in Korth’s crooked spine.”

            Eyes swung in Cailan’s direction and he smiled sunnily, hopefully concealing his nervousness. “I am also under sword-oath to aid the Wardens,” he admitted calmly. “If the Landsmeet wants my head for putting Ferelden in such a bad state, they can wait until the treaties are collected.”

            “He’s an idiot, but a regretful one,” Svarah supplied helpfully.

            “Given I was a moron the other week, I must have improved my standing in your eyes, my dear lady Thane,” Cailan responded with a slightly florid bow in the Thane’s direction.

            “He’s definitely your brother and not just in the nose,” Eileen noted dryly to Alistair.

            “I guess some virtues breed true,” Alistair responded with a grin. “How’s Ronan?”

            “Ronan is fine and he still thinks you’re an idiot for not trying to steal me again.”

            “As soon try and hold the summer in the palm of my hand as to hold you for any length of days,” Alistair answered softly, fondly. “It would be a very great shame to introduce cold steel’s edge to you, my bride of summer and sunlight.”

            “It would be a greater shame to deprive your silver-tongued bride of her husband for any length of time, my husband of youth and laughter,” Eileen retorted with a faint smile. “Eirik cannot stand as Teyrn and my eldest brother is warleader of Red-Lion Hold. Stand aside, son of Fiona, for one Avvar-born must lead the children of ice and steel into the lowlands.”

            The suggestion might have been gently meant but it turned Alistair’s face cold and remote. “I am not considered Avvar, though I came of age amongst you?” he asked, all warmth gone from his voice. “I was brought here, still a suckling babe, and the mother’s milk I drank was Avvar. I have shed blood for the gods and my Hold, and if I had my way, both my brother and wife would forsake the Alamarri who tried to lessen one and think the other strange to join us! I would be Teyrn, not for my glory, but because we are bound to follow the treaties and who better to command than one raised to fight darkspawn, a son of the Avvar with kin-ties to the Alamarri, who would cherish each life – aye, even Movran’s – as his own kin’s!”

            The Thanes looked at each other awkwardly while the priestly lot and the shamans began a quick discussion in an unknown language that made Mara’s eyes narrow as she tried to eavesdrop.

            Eileen looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” she told Alistair, who looked pissed as Loghain with constipation. Cailan flinched as he recalled that Anora’s father, his father’s best friend, might be dead and all because of his idiocy.

            “You know how such talk makes me feel,” Alistair retorted flatly.

            “I know. I was just worried that you’d gone lowlander on us.” Eileen’s pretty face was genuinely concerned. “We marched for the Alamarri under Maferath’s banner once and what did that get us? Branded ‘heretics’ for staying true to the gods and called barbarians!”

            “I know.” Alistair ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. “Cailan offered me Howe’s Hold when I take his head, which I accepted more for Mara’s sake and because Cailan has _no one_ who would stand at his back than my own. But I would gladly relinquish claim to Amaranthine to remain amongst the Avvar.”

            “If Fergus becomes King, I will likely become Teyrna of Highever,” Mara said quietly. “If it’s Alistair’s wish to be released from marriage to me so he can remain amongst his kin, I… will agree to it, though I’ll miss him.”

            “No one’s arguing the validity of your marriage, lass, though you’ll need to go through a proper one amongst us to confirm it,” the big Sky Watcher, hitherto silent until now, said gently. “That wasn’t a bad history-song, though it was a bit all over the place. One minute you were Alamarri and the next Avvar and two sentences later Chasind!”

            “We don’t exactly have skalds in the lowlands anymore, thanks to the Orlesians and the Chantry,” Mara replied, flushing slightly. “We… don’t have many history-songs either, not ones written down, because the Orlesians did their best to burn the rest.”

            “Mara wants to reclaim the Alamarri’s history,” Alistair said proudly.

            “Don’t suppose she wants to return them to the true gods?” Amund asked dryly.

            “Which ones are those – the Maker and His Bride, the Avvar gods, the elven gods, the Old Gods or the All-Goddess of Rivain?” Mara countered, just as dryly.

            “Got an answer for everything, doesn’t she?” Amund asked Alistair as the latter smirked in amusement.

            “I like to think Imhar smiled in passing at her when she was born,” the smaller (Amund was a mountain made flesh, almost the size of a Qunari) warrior answered smugly.

            Movran joined in the conversation by dint of shoving a startled Mara aside and staring at Alistair. “What makes you think a streak of dog shit like you has the right to be Teyrn? I am the mightiest warrior of the Avvar!”

            Then he bent over, crying tears that cut through the woad on his face, as Mara kicked him in the balls from behind. “Call my husband a streak of dog shit, you effluent from a goat’s infected right testicle?”

            Mara _had_ to show off her education, even when insulting a man after kicking him where it hurt. Cailan reminded himself not to even playfully flirt with her because it looked like Teyrna Eleanor had taught her the move that launched a rude Bryce Cousland into the sea on their first meeting (or so King Maric claimed).

            “She’s got a flair for language alright,” Eileen noted dryly to Alistair as Cailan’s brother looked at the Lady Cousland with the sappy expression of a man lost to love. “Good kick on her too.”

            Apparently Movran crying wasn’t enough to break the deliberations of the council now that the Thanes had joined in, though Amund looked over his shoulder at them. “I think it will be between you and me, Alistair,” the big warrior noted.

            “I’m not good enough?” Eileen asked with a dangerous edge to her voice, the sort that made Cailan run when Anora developed it.

            “You’re Thane material. Making you Teyrna would disqualify you,” Amund responded quietly.

            “A person who holds Teyrnship cannot rule as Thane amongst the Avvar,” Alistair explained softly to Mara and Cailan. “Because in war, the Teyrn holds life and death over the Avvar, and our Thanes must answer to the will of the gods and their people.”

            “Not a bad idea,” Cailan conceded. “If I’d have known what I do now, I would have cheerfully handed the Mabari Throne over to Bryce Cousland.”

            “I hope there’s news of what’s going on down in the lowlands once we reach Orzammar,” Mara said softly. “I’m worried about Fergus.”

            “Your big brother’s a mighty warrior and strategist,” Cailan assured her.

            “My brother’s Cousland sense of justice has been warped by everything that happened,” Mara answered grimly. “We don’t need another Hafter Cousland running around.”

            Given that Hafter Cousland was a Teyrn of Highever notorious for his brutal sense of justice – always fair, but never tempered with mercy and oftentimes cruel – Cailan was inclined to agree. Especially if he wound up married to the pragmatic Anora, if she chose to divorce the King of Ferelden as she had every right to.

            _…I can’t walk away from this,_ he realised. _I… have to fix what I’ve done, somehow._

He wasn’t Maric the Saviour, but Maric the fucking Saviour wouldn’t have fucked up so badly. He had to fight for his crown, not because he was qualified for it, but because it was the only way he would have the authority to fix things… somehow. He’d have to prove himself to Anora, to the Landsmeet, to Ferelden itself that he wasn’t completely useless.

            During his musing, the conversation amongst the Council had ended, and Alistair stood facing the Thanes. Owyne, who was apparently an in-law of Matthias Wulffe somehow, stood up and faced the contenders.

            “Alistair Ar Fiona O Ramhold, Amund the Sky Watcher, you two will prove yourselves worthy for the Teyrnship on the morrow. You will undergo the Test of the Lady with iron weights around your wrists and ankles to represent the burdens of leadership,” he announced calmly. “If neither of you are up to this, say so now and retire without shame, but if you refuse after tomorrow’s test begins… Then you will be stricken from the history-songs as if you never lived.”

            Cailan’s brother bared his lips in a feral smile as Amund nodded assent. “I will prove myself. Better I fall from the rock-face than be not considered Avvar.”

            The Thane inclined his head. “As you will, son of Fiona. Rest well because you’ll need all your strength tomorrow.”

            The meeting broke up and Cailan felt a chill run down his spine. If his brother died, he would have no more family in the world.

            And now that he had gained a brother, he couldn’t lose him.


	16. The Test of the Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Alistair wrapped his hands with strips of druffalo hide to match the light leathers, just thick enough to protect himself from the rough stone of the rock-face. If he fell down, no amount of armour would keep him from broken bones at best, so he didn’t bother with his usual chainmail. As was appropriate, he arranged the division of his meagre belongings between Cailan and Mara should he die, sung the souls of those he’d promised to do so to the Lady, and generally settled his affairs last night. It was win or die now, for a Teyrn could ask no more of the Avvar than he’d ask of himself, and a Teyrn had to give it all for the clans.

            Amund looked calm, clad almost as lightly as Alistair; the bulky Sky Watcher had a thick layer of fat over his solid muscle, needed because he climbed the highest peaks to read the omens in the sky. “If you’ll fall, I’ll see your kin taken care of,” he promised quietly as he tied the iron weights, deceptively light on the ground but heavy when you were twenty feet above Korth’s stone, around his ankles. Alistair had already tied them around the priest’s wrists and had the same done for him.

            “Thank you. If you die, I’ll kill Movran and his redheaded brats,” Alistair promised with a smile, earning a grin from Amund.

            “It would be almost worth dying,” the Sky Watcher laughed. “Ready?”

            “Never. But who truly is?” Alistair rolled his shoulders and grabbed the fennec fur scarf he would wrap around his head and shoulders to stay warm. “Let’s go.”

            For this portion of the test to become Teyrn, only the Thanes and priests were here, everyone else banished to the great hall to await the winner. Alistair sighed, remembering the quiet terror in Mara’s eyes even as her face remained calm as a statue while she tied a strip of blue cloth – her favour – around his arm and told him not to die just as she was getting to like him. He loved her and was doing his best to gain her love in return.

            The rock-face was thirty feet high, ice-slick and covered in grey-green moss. Hard enough to climb without the weights on his ankles and wrists and high enough that a fall could kill him. At the top stood two shaman-born known for their healing abilities waited to deal with any injuries from the climb.

            Orlaith and Owyne, who were the most senior amongst priests and Thanes, stepped forward. “You have one last chance to forfeit without shame,” the latter intoned. “If you refuse to go on once the test is begun, you will be killed, for death is better than surrender.”

            When neither Alistair nor Amund answered, Orlaith sighed and nodded. “So be it. May the Lady of the Skies watch over you.”

            They started to climb together, fingers scrabbling for handholds on the coarse grey-green moss that clung to the slick grey stone as feet dug into little niches in the rock. Alistair’s world narrowed to the kiss of ice-cold stone against his cheek, the seep of moisture into his leathers and the strain of muscle and sinew as he reached for the nearest handhold.

            Amund, of course, was a far more experienced climber than Alistair and soon took the lead. But as the rock-face turned into an overhang, even the Sky Watcher was challenged, his big fingers digging into the moss so tightly that it threatened to tear. The iron weights burned at Alistair’s wrists and ankles, dragging him towards the earth and only his stubborn will kept him climbing.

            The overhang almost killed him then and there, only the thought that the Avvar were relying on him – Mara and Cailan needing his help – allowing him to climb. Korth was surely laughing at him for being such a weakling, the Lady shaking her head, but he. Could. Not. Fail.

            Beside him, Amund grunted as one of his meaty hands closed over a clump of moss and it broke away, leaving him hanging onto the rock-face with one hand and two feet. He scrambled for another handhold desperately, the frail shale beneath his booted feet beginning to crack, and Alistair saw with horror the beginnings of the Sky Watcher’s likely fall.

            He respected Amund. Even if it meant he lost the Teyrnship, he couldn’t win over the corpse of another warrior, not like this.

            Alistair reached one and grabbed the back of Amund’s belt, roaring as he used the abilities of the Reaver to increase his strength via the pain and strain. Too many lowlanders assumed it was simply about using your wounds to power the fury of battle but a true Reaver could use it for so much more than that.

            That brief grasp was enough to steady the Sky Watcher, allow him to find another handhold, and continue to climb towards the edge of the overhang where a Thane would take his hand to symbolise the relationship between leader and follower, for the former needed the latter to succeed in the end.

            Alistair tasted the bitter flavour of disappointment, the warrior eager for victory cursing him for his moment of helpfulness, and reached for the same handhold Amund had used. He told the warrior eager for glory to firmly shut up because some victories weren’t worth the price.

            He reached the edge and found Eileen, standing for Thane Eirik who was an old man, with her hand outstretched. Taking it gladly, he dragged himself onto the top of the cliff and collapsed on the wiry grass with a hiss of pain. Every muscle and sinew in his body burned and the bones that held them together felt like iron weights.

            Owyne handed him a cup of hot herbal tea that he drank gratefully, tasting the astringency of elfroot and the sweeter notes of spindleweed, trying not think of how he was going to explain his failure to Mara and Cailan. Alamarri had different ideas of honour that included doing whatever it took to fulfil a promise, so his refusal to let Amund fall so he could win was likely something akin to a betrayal. He hoped that they understood. Mara might, she knew of the old ways.

            Alistair heard the scrape of leather on stone and looked up to see Amund, broad face streaked with sweat that cut through the paint on his face, haul himself over the edge of the rock-face and fall to his knees.

            “It is done,” Orlaith intoned, her peregrine falcon already primed to carry messages across the Frostbacks. “Alistair Ar Fiona O Ramhold will be Teyrn of the Avvar and Lord of Skyhold from now until the Blight is ended, Korth Mountain-Father and the Lady of the Skies be our witnesses.”

            Hot tea spilt in his lap as Alistair released the cup in shock.

            “Hope that doesn’t damage anything your wife will be unhappy about,” Eileen observed with a smirk.

            “Teyrn, if anyone claims you are not of the Avvar, I will kill them,” Amund said simply. “You are fit to lead us into war.”

            Alistair was too busy piling snow into his lap to avoid serious burns to answer them, the Thanes and priests nodding in agreement with Amund. The cool thrill of healing magic, provided by a shaman-born, ran through his body and the pain vanished.

            It was still a while before he could speak, a while and two cups of herbal tea. He wasn’t used to climbing mountains like that, after all. “I will set a third of the Avvar warriors, full half of the Hands of Korth, and two thirds of the shaman-born and priests to remain in the Holds,” he announced. “Of that force, half are to watch the Ciriane forces. The Empire is known for expanding during a Blight.”

            “Which will incidentally protect the Alamarri on their left flank,” Owyne noted dryly.

            “I doubt the Ciriane will leave us be this time if they conquer the Alamarri, the Clayne and the Chasind,” Alistair pointed out.

            Owyne raised an eyebrow. “The Clayne still exist?”

            “Perhaps not as we or the Chasind do, but the folk of South Reach have many Clayne ways, and if Warden-Constable Cauthrien is believed they may even worship the old gods alongside the Maker,” Alistair replied. “She told me to go to the Chantry on Sunday as it was the Maker’s day and whatever I did the rest of the week was none of his concern.”

            Eileen barked with laughter. She _would_ approve of such a loophole as a would-be Thane.

            “I hope the Alamarri will give us supplies because we won’t be able to raid them,” Amund observed, cradling his own cup of tea.

            “The Alamarri will give us supplies, willingly or not,” Alistair promised darkly. “Owyne, your nephew’s bride’s father, what can he do for us?”

            “Arl Matthias Wulffe will supply us as long as we trade fairly,” Owyne answered. “If he falls, as do his sons, Izot An Maris O Wulffe will have the right to West Hills.”

            Alistair drank more slowly from his fourth cup of tea. “I told Fergus I would go to Redcliffe with the Ashes to heal Arl Eamon Guerrin, but I didn’t tell him when, and Orzammar owes the Wardens warriors. We will march north, establishing safe routes and caches, and those who cannot fight are to congregate in Skyhold after harvesting everything they can from the autumn crops. The elvhen magics are strong here and a kernel of the Avvar will survive against even the darkspawn.”

            Orlaith nodded approvingly. “Owyne and I will oversee Skyhold.”

            Alistair grinned at the priestess. “If you want to marry the man, just get him to steal you.”

            The blue-robed woman, like Cailan’s wife Anora according to reputation, was not amused. Owyne, on the other hand, was looking rather thoughtful. A priestess would make for a good wife, especially for a Thane…

            “Any more plans than that will need to wait until we reach Orzammar,” Alistair continued. “I need to know what’s going on in the lowlands before I make plans for us down there.”

            Svarah, silent until now, nodded. “I’ll get my traders to chase down rumours. I might even plant a few to keep the Ciriane busy.”

            Alistair raised an eyebrow at the Thane of Stone-Bear Hold and she smiled toothily. “Your brother is moderately amusing. The Ciriane have no sense of humour, unfortunately.”

            “Don’t antagonise them. They pay well for furs and we’ll need that coin.” Alistair finished his tea and found the strength to stand. “I hope you will counsel and guide me, all of you. I may be Teyrn, but I cannot do it alone.”

            He noted the subtle relaxation amongst the council as they nodded in agreement. “As you wish, Alistair Ar Fiona ac Maric O Skyhold,” Orlaith agreed.

            “Let’s go to the great hall. Everyone’s no doubt waiting for the news.”

            He accepted his red-lion fur cloak from Owyne and pulled it on before walking back to Skyhold. The real work was only beginning.

            Inside, a great feast had been laid, a skald ready to sing the first verse of the new Teyrn’s history-song, and the golden fillet of the Teyrn sitting on the heavy stone bench which served as a throne. Alistair walked up there, head high though he wanted to sit down and rest, and crowned himself with the thin metal band. Then he gratefully sat down with the Thanes arraying themselves on lesser but still impressive chairs, everyone else sitting down at benches.

            Cailan smacked his left fist into his right palm, giving a joyous whoop that spoilt the solemnity of the occasion, but Alistair knew that being serious was as alien to the King of Ferelden as walking by something written down and not reading it was for Mara. His wife, clad in practical leathers and furs and almost looking Avvar, sat a little down from Cailan with a relieved expression on her face.

            Alistair repeated his plans, earning thoughtful but approving nods from the warriors in the crowd, and then delivered the appropriate command to feast. It would be the last taste of prosperity for tomorrow, the Thanes would enact rationing to prepare the Avvar for the march to Orzammar.

            He joined Mara and Cailan at their bench, the golden diadem a heavier weight than he expected. When they looked at him askance, he glanced down and saw he still wore the iron weights at wrist and ankle. He had grown used to the burden in a short time.

            Then he shrugged. He would bear them, to remind him of the burden that he carried as Teyrn of the Avvar. Life and death was his to decree until Blight’s end, which he hoped was sooner rather than later. No one should have that power over so many people, which was half the trouble the lowlanders had.

            But tonight he would feast and accept congratulations, fending off the Thanes’ attempts to promote their Hold over others or to win his favour. Suddenly he was relieved that he was wed to Mara, and not just because his little falcon was superior to all other women but Eileen, with whom she stood equal; he would have been forced to steal a wife, and woe betide him if he chose the wrong one!

            Now he suddenly understood why Cailan had shied away from particular responsibilities, not been willing to fight for his crown as much as he should. Ruling was like walking through the Fallow Mire, stagnant water containing undead keen to have you join them in boggy undeath and sickness on the wind. He was already looking forward to the demise of the darkspawn.

            But Alistair had chosen to pursue this burden and bear it he would as best he could. Lady of the Skies watch over them all.


	17. Gherlen's Gates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for discussion of implied child abuse, death and violence.

The trade-city that lay between Gherlen’s Gates and the entrance to Orzammar was even more chaotic than usual, refugees looking to go anywhere but Ferelden crowding the core of stone buildings and overflowing into a tent city that crammed every bit of space between those statues and the mountain. After two and a half months away from urban crowds, Mara was forced to hang onto her composure as she fought the claustrophobic feeling she had whenever she couldn’t move freely. Alistair’s core warband, now two hundred strong and consisting of both Avvar and Fereldans, was allowed free passage past Gherlen’s Gates once Amund the Sky Watcher, who was second in command, explained to the surfacer guards that the Teyrn of the Avvar had come, with Grey Wardens, to discuss an alliance against the Blight.

            One of the guards, an evil-looking man with long dark braids and a casteless brand, grimaced. “Damned diamond-castes are fighting over the throne with Endrin dead,” he told Alistair disgustedly. “Bhelen’s the rightful heir but Harrowmount’s claiming the King named _him_ successor.”

            Duncan pushed his way through the warband, face bleak as the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and approached the casteless guard. “Brytta’s dead, Leske,” he told the dwarf.

            The man, who wore better armour than most, looked stricken. “Stone-dammit! How’d she die?”

            “She took out an Ogre with her back broken,” Duncan answered flatly.

            “Ah, nugshit.” Leske sighed. “Send word to me when you’ve found somewhere to stay, cousin, and we’ll both get shitfaced.”

            He squared his shoulders, looking up at Alistair. “Sorry about that. I’m Leske Brosca – me and Bryt were cousins. Knowing she died… Well, it’s a kick in the guts.”

            Alistair nodded knowingly. “Brytta An Korth was… invincible,” he agreed.

            “Well, she’s with the Ancestors now, which is a damned shame. She terrified the Assembly.” Leske grimaced again. “That means Sigrun’s in charge. Dead Griffin – sorry, Warden-Legionnaire. She won’t play politics, much as it’s needed.”

            Amund hefted his hammer. “Have the children of Korth gone mad as the Alamarri have, to fight over a throne during the Blight?” he asked in disbelief.

            “To hear the Orzammar guards put it, ‘Their world ended when Endrin did’.” Leske shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know if they’ll let you in, Teyrn Alistair, but-“

            “Inform the gate guards that Cailan, King of Ferelden, would speak to the Assembly,” Cailan interrupted with his customary royal arrogance.

            Leske’s eyebrow shot up. “You survived Ostagar? The Fereldan civil war just got a lot more interesting.”

            “We will be staying at Ramhold’s customary camping place,” Alistair said quietly. “Come to us, Leske Ar Korth O Brosca, and we will share mead and discuss affairs.”

            “It will be my sorrowful honour,” Leske answered, voice grim. “Watch your back. Rendon Howe and Fergus Cousland have sent… emissaries… to the deshyrs.”

            Mara’s shoulders immediately knotted with tension. How would her brother react to her decisions and the news Alistair was now Teyrn of the Avvar?

            The Avvar and Fereldan warriors knew how to set a camp, the sole Chantry cleric amongst the Fereldans left with Cauthrien and Azur Ar Brosna O Redhold, who had been appointed as third in command by dint of his Fereldan bride Izot Wulffe. Izot herself was serving as a go-between, her light stature and ability to ride like a jockey allowing her to coordinate between both forces.

            Once Mara had some space, she took a deep breath and savoured her brief solitude. She was a woman who preferred privacy and there was precious little of that in a war camp.

            It was the sound of fabric being cut that alerted her to the assassin; a knife, quivering where it struck the willow tent pole, gleamed sickly red on both sides. “Brasca!” swore an Antivan accent softly – but loud enough for Mara to hear.

            She spun around, grabbing the iron-headed willow spear she’d used to kill darkspawn, and found herself facing a lithe, flaxen-haired elf with olive skin and the tattoos of a Journeyman Crow.

            “Let me guess: Rendon Howe wants me dead now,” she drawled.

            “I’m afraid so, Lady Cousland. It’s… nothing personal.” The elf fell into a defensive crouch, poised like a snake.

            Mara didn’t oblige him by attacking, instead screaming shrilly though her throat hurt with the effort. The smoke damage at Highever was permanent despite the two healings she had, something that she loathed but would never reveal. The Chantry loved her best when she didn’t sing, even before her throat was damaged.

            “Brasca!” the elf swore again, looking to escape through the slit in the tent’s back but promptly cornered by Cu who wriggled his way in, growling viciously. He backed away and tripped over the pack Mara had gladly dropped, finding the angry king-hound at his throat.

            Alistair burst in, ripping the tent-flap open, such a murderous expression on his face that Mara could only assume he went into Reaver mode. Even the Crow’s eyes widened and he wisely went still.

            “It seems Rendon Howe’s gone from wanting to marry me to trying to kill me,” Mara rasped hoarsely.

            “Is that so?” growled her husband. “Then I will send this one’s head back to Howe.”

            “Wait!” Mara commanded. “I want to question him.”

            The elf smirked, eyebrow arching amusedly. “As much as I would enjoy being roughed up by a beautiful woman such as yourself, Lady Cousland, I will save you the trouble of tying me up and amusing yourself by giving you the information you need. Rendon Howe purchased my services, not my silence, after all.”

            “And I suppose that you hope for your life in return?” Mara asked, sticking to the King’s Tongue instead of speaking in Antivan so that Alistair could understand.

            “Well, yes, but not as you think,” the elf admitted. “I have failed in my contract and the Crows will be very unhappy. And by very unhappy I mean ‘dispatch someone to kill me slowly and painfully’. At best, you decide I am useful and keep me. At worst, you let the barbarian kill me quickly and give me a decent burial. Both are better fates than what awaits a Crow who has failed.”

            “That’s true enough,” Mara confirmed wryly. “So talk.”

            “My name, dear Lady Cousland, is Zevran Arainai,” the elf said, managing a florid bow while flat on his arse, no mean trick. “I was hired by Arl Howe, a wretched little man with delusions of grandeur, to take you if possible and kill you if not. I decided that by the size of your, ah, entourage I would be unable to do the first, so I opted for the latter.”

            “How much were you offered?” Alistair demanded. “I will stuff a pebble down your throat for each coin you accepted to murder an Avvar’s wife.”

            Zevran’s eyes, an extraordinary amber-brown hue, widened. “Oh, you are married to this gentleman? Howe won’t be amused to hear that.”

            “Fuck Howe. Actually, I’d rather not, because our children would look like something that crawled out of the Fallow Mire,” Mara observed sarcastically, looking around for the syrup she used when her throat was overtaxed. “Could you get the amber glass bottle from the pack you’re sitting on, please?”

            “Certainly,” Zevran agreed, opening said pack and pulling out the bottle containing the concoction Wynne had mixed for Mara. She drank a mouthful of the herb-and-honey mixture, gagging at its sickly sweet taste. “As for price, I would have seen remarkably little of it, I fear. My Master, however, would have stood to make a handsome profit from Lady Cousland’s demise.”

            “Crows, especially elven ones, are bought on the slave market young and taught to know nothing but murder, seduction and infiltration,” Mara told Alistair once she could speak clearly again. “Their only chance for freedom is to become a Master and pulling off a contract like the one on me would have allowed Zevran the chance to run his own cell.”

            “As the Lady Cousland said,” Zevran agreed with a sigh. “Alas, it’s not to be. Master Geraldo is remarkably unforgiving and I am a marked man now.”

            Alistair sheathed his sword in disgust. “I pity you, Zevran of the Crows. But I cannot have a man who tried to murder my wife in service to me, so I will give you a choice, one that will deliver you from the Crows: a clean death with your soul sung to the sky, your bones to be picked by the Lady of the Skies’ birds, or the Grey Wardens.”

            “I… would rather be buried, please, or burned,” Zevran said quietly. “I know you mean well, but… I would rather be given a Chantry service.”

            “You have no wish to join the Wardens then?” Alistair asked, hand returning to his sword-hilt.

            “Death now or in thirty years’ time…” The assassin sighed. “I thought they were all dead.”

            “Not all. There are five and more in Orzammar,” Mara told him gently. She pitied the man, who had no choice in his trade, but she would see him dead if he refused the Joining. “Your name will be written into the ranks of the Grey even if you don’t survive the Joining as Warden-Recruit Zevran Arainai, a better fate than ‘failed Crow #12243’.”

            Zevran barked a bitter laugh. “True enough, Lady Cousland. Since you apparently have no use for me…”

            “I have plenty of use for an assassin, but not one who’s tried to kill me,” Mara said dryly, her throat still sore.

            “That is… fair enough.” Zevran’s shoulders hunched as he sighed. “Fine, take me to the Wardens. Maybe I could sweet-talk them into telling the Crows they Conscripted me _before_ I tried to kill you.”

            “I’m sure Warden-Constable Daveth will be amenable to the suggestion,” Mara said, amused in spite of herself.

            “Oh, thank you so much, Lady Cousland.” Zevran rose, Cu backing away but still watching him with a deadly promise. “I do hope you live to annoy Howe. He’s a wretched host with disturbing tastes.”

            “I intend to gut Howe and feed his intestines to a passing gurgut,” Mara vowed with a grim smile. “While he’s still alive.”

            Zevran’s eyes brightened. “I know a Bann with a private menagerie who owns a gurgut…”

            “I thought you were going to use vultures,” Alistair observed, eyes still on the assassin.

            “They’re sacred to the Lady. Howe doesn’t deserve the honour.”

            The answer, of course, pleased him. He picked up a stunned Zevran and dragged him out, bellowing for Daveth to make himself useful. Mara swallowed some more of her throat syrup before emerging from the tent, Cu at her heels.

            “Is it wise to allow the assassin who tried to kill you live?” asked Morrigan, popping out of nowhere as she liked to do.

            “I don’t like waste. And we need more Wardens,” Mara told the witch. “Duncan might be grieving, but he’s still sharp and able to keep Zevran in line, and Daveth is… ruthless in a way that only Brytta Brosca would have appreciated.”

            “Daveth is… pragmatic,” Morrigan agreed with a smile.

            “Are you two sleeping together? Pardon the bluntness, but I need to keep track of these things in case something gets bad and it blows up like Qunari blackpowder.”

            “I am… still deciding.” Morrigan smiled slightly. “Cailan is amusing enough to flirt with, but his mind is turning more towards his duties as King. Daveth is much like your Alistair, inclined to fall hard in love, which is foolish because only power and knowledge have meaning. Carver, frankly, is terrified of me and his brother Garrett is regrettably not a Warden.”

            “Looking for stamina and no strings attached?” Mara asked curiously.

            “Something like that, yes.” Morrigan’s tone suggested the Cousland girl best not pursue the matter. “Perhaps this Zevran will turn out useful after all.”

            Mara took a deep breath. “Let him have the choice, Morrigan. Crows… are moulded from birth and never given a choice.”

            The witch sucked in a sharp breath. Then she left without saying farewell, something Mara was used to and never took offence at.

            Alistair returned, the golden diadem of the Avvar Teyrns on his brow. Maferath had reputedly worn that slim band of gilded iron and now the burden was her husband’s. “Were you hurt?” he asked.

            “No. And before you ask, I suffered damage from breathing smoke during Highever’s ruin, so I sometimes drink a syrup Wynne mixed up to soothe my throat,” Mara told him. “No, the healers can’t do much about it.”

            “I don’t care about your throat,” he whispered with heartbreaking gentleness. “I care about _you_ , my little falcon. If I had to steal a bride, I would have stolen you. I look at Duncan and know that if I lost you, I would be like him. Please do not die on me.”

            She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his, and found herself wrapped up in a tight embrace. Eileen, who had spent the days after Alistair becoming Teyrn offering all sorts of startling and intimate facts about her former husband, told her that no matter how much he might rage in battle, the Reaver was gentle as a lamb in the bedroom, almost to the point where it frustrated the Thane-to-be of Ramhold, who liked a good energetic romp in bed.

            Alistair broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. “I would stay in here with you, but we must speak to the gate guards of Orzammar. It seems dwarven politics will engulf us as lowlander politics has.”

            Mara nodded with a sigh. Duty called. “I need to try and get access to the Shaperate. If I can find information on previous Blights, it might allow us to predict the path of this one.”

            “Aye.” Alistair released her, touching her cheek gently, and nodded at the spear in her hand. “I’ll see if Daveth can teach you how to fight with that properly. Chasind use light spears.”

            “It’s not too different to a harpoon,” Mara agreed softly. “Mother made sure I knew how to use _those._ ”

            “Harpoon?”

            “Fishing spear, attached to the wrist with a rope. The bigger ones are attached to great ships that hunt whales.” Mara smiled up at him. “My mother was one of Ferelden’s greatest admirals and raiders during the war with the Orlesians.”

            Alistair stared at her. “…Admiral?”

            “Commander of a fleet of ships,” Mara told him. “Have you ever heard of the sea chanty ‘The Soldier and the Seawolf’?”

            “…No.”

            Mara grinned, the memory of her mother’s face when she caught her daughter singing the ribald verses – all ten of them – producing a bittersweet pang. “That was about my father, who was one of Ferelden’s finest generals, meeting my mother and mistaking her for a common sailor. In an hour, she made him back up and nearly fall off a cliff, kicked him so hard in the groin he was literally tossed off the fishing skiff that ran sailors between the shore and her ship the Mistral, and throw himself on the ground, begging for her forgiveness.”

            Alistair roared with laughter. “That explains how you brought Movran down so easily!”

            Mara nodded. “Indeed. Mother, of course, was also trained in the feminine arts that most people associate with noblewomen. Many, many members of the Landsmeet forgot that my mother had the third highest bounty put on her head by the Orlesians just behind King Maric and Teyrn Loghain, in that order, because she was much like Leandra Hawke, only with more steel in her spine.”

            Her lips quirked in amusement. “I can run a castle and by extension a teyrnir in theory, but the finer arts of grace and diplomacy aren’t my strong point, much to Mother’s initial despair. I was too little to use a greatsword, came too late to the training of a rogue to be even as adept as Daveth, and I’m only capable of handling squad-level tactics or a siege. But aside from my knowledge of the old lore, I can handle a boat almost as well as Mother could, and used to beat Fergus at the battleships game we’d play as children.”

            “I’ve never seen the sea,” Alistair said quietly. “When this is over, we will have to look at it.”

            Mara smiled at him. “Once we’re done in Orzammar, our route to Redcliffe will take us through Waking Sea and Storm Coast, with whom I have kin ties. You will see the sea there. In fact, you might have to prove to Cousin Alfstanna and Uncle Fearchar the Younger a landlubber is good enough for the daughter of the Seawolf and granddaughter of the Storm Giant!”

            _Assuming Howe hasn’t decimated them,_ she thought with a pang.

            Alistair smiled wolfishly. “I look forward to the challenge, little falcon. Let’s go and deal with these gate guards.”

            Mara nodded and took his arm. Let the rumours about their closeness fly far and fast. He was her husband and the best one she could have had too.


	18. News at the Gates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for grief, death and violence. Zevran’s armour is based off the picture in World of Thedas Vol. 2 with some details inspired by Ezio’s armour in Assassin’s Creed.

“King Fergus demands the allegiance of your… what do you call them? Deshyrs!”

            Daveth didn’t know who the worthless nob flapping his gums at the unimpressed Orzammar gate guard, a grim-faced warrior with black angular tattoos all over his face, but he knew when Milady Mara looked pissed. “The Landsmeet made Fergus King then without confirming Cailan was dead?” she asked, voice that ice-cold iron which froze a man’s nuts at ten paces, and the nob spun around in shock.

            One thing about Orzammar cutting off trade was that a lot of fancy goods were going for cheap and Milady Mara had a keen eye, so everyone who was considered a ranker – including Daveth himself – found themselves outfitted in fine linen and wool, silk and velvet, and their armour was all polished and repaired. Zevran, the newest Warden, had settled for getting the feathers worked into his black leather armour worked in silver and ear-tufts attached to his bird-shaped helm to turn it from a crow to a griffin. Duncan wasn’t much happy about it, but Daveth was of the opinion if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and why throw away armour better than most of what the other Wardens wore? Cauthrien was finally in Warden heavy armour, which she wasn’t too happy about because she felt like she was betraying Loghain, and Carver was puffing his chest out at wearing the heaviest plate of them all and his nice new Warden greatsword. Having a cache in the trade-city had been one of Bryt’s many, many fine ideas.

            Cailan was wearing his golden armour, all shiny and new again, and Alistair had replaced his iron chainmail for red steel edged with bloodstone, the golden Teyrn’s fillet on his head and the fur of the red lion he’d killed when coming of age hanging in a thick sweep to the ankles. Standing side by side, any idiot – even a nob – could tell they were brothers, both brothers who looked supremely pissed off.

            Milady Mara, who was attended to by Leandra and Bethany Hawke, wore her Cousland armour with the laurel gilding in the leather and much the same style as Zevran. Turned out it was Antivan work, gift from her brother’s dead wife’s folk. Zev also said that if she’d taken on his service, she’d have been considered a Crow Master in her own right because Oriana’s brother was a Crow himself and had given her some of the training, though she came late to it. The Hawke ladies wore fine silk, Leandra looking happy to wear silk again – even if it was Orzammar nob style – and Bethany smoothing down her skirts in wonder.

            Daveth hadn’t been surprised she didn’t remember him. The Couslands, until Highever fell, had been some of the good nobs who treated everyone justly and fairly. According to Milady Mara, the goodness had gone from Fergus, leaving him just and fair but without mercy. The Warden shook his head in disgust. She’d been through it all while Fergus was down south and managed to remain the same person who’d taken him at his word about being innocent of picking Oriana Cousland’s pocket and catching the mongrel who did. Then she got him to teach her how to pick pockets _properly_ and shared how to pick a lock in return.

            Assuring Alistair that he didn’t think of her like _that_ had been both amusing and terrifying, because the Avvar was scared of losing her. Not… possessive, but he’d gone and fallen in love with Milady Mara, and wanted to keep her to himself so long as their marriage lasted. He had nothing to worry about, because even if Alistair _wouldn’t_ be able to break him with one hand, Daveth didn’t think of the Lady Cousland like he did Morrigan or even Bethany. It wasn’t Orlesian chevalier and noblewoman shit, just much like how he thought of Bryt while she was alive – admiration, gratitude and a determination to make sure anyone who pissed off either lady would die very soon.

            Speaking of Bryt, Daveth slid a sideways glance at Duncan, who stared grimly ahead. The man was dumping many of his duties on Daveth and Cauthrien so he could hang on to kill the archdemon and go back to Brytta. Daveth avoided his eyes, those bleak black pits of grief and pain, and looked instead at Bethany, who flashed him a quick nervous smile before Leandra caught him looking and frowned.

            The nob was a warrior, clad in greenish veridium plate with close-cropped red hair and ragged scars on his cheeks. His blue eyes were fastened on Mara in recognition, shock turning to horror as he realised that the Theirin brothers were standing next to her, looking all badass.

            “Ostagar was a mess, Lady Cousland, and your brother had to move quickly to counter Rendon Howe so we could be prepared to meet the Blight,” the knight said hastily.

            “Has Anora been stripped of her rights too?” Cailan asked acidly, all nob arrogance and a King’s anger. He might hop from woman to woman like a bunny in a cabbage patch, but he did care about Anora, probably because no one else would put up with his shit.

            “Rendon Howe moved into the Bannorn,” the knight answered quickly. “King… Ah… Teyrn Fergus didn’t make it to Denerim.”

            He straightened his shoulders and collected himself. “Lady Cousland, weren’t you supposed to go to Redcliffe to gain the aid of Arl Eamon?”

            Mara’s voice was softer than it had been, though still firm. “Rory, when Fergus withdrew, he left Teyrn Loghain and the Wardens to die. To end a Blight, a Warden must kill an archdemon, and that means we needed more than just the three who survived Ostagar. I’m also one of the few people who can translate the old treaties accurately, so I’ve sworn sword-oath to aid the Wardens in gathering Orzammar, the mages, the Avvar and the Dalish to help Ferelden fight the darkspawn.”

            Rory’s lips pursed. “Lady Cousland, I… understand your decision. But Fergus has… become harsh since Ostagar.”

            “You mean he’s Hafter Cousland come again,” Mara said with infinite sorrow in her voice.

            “Yes.” Rory’s shoulders slumped. “Howe tortured me. I want him to _suffer_. But unless Fergus purges his fury in dealing with the Howes, I will be following a Teyrn out of fear, not loyalty.”

            Daveth and Zevran shared looks. Seemed like the Crow had been sent after the wrong Cousland.

            “Rory, if you can, moderate his… actions,” Mara said regretfully. “And whatever you do, don’t ever tell him what was done to Oriana and Oren.”

            “He already knows, Lady Cousland. We retook Highever and…” Rory took a shuddering breath. “He’s besieging Amaranthine now and if Thom and Delilah Howe fall into his hands, he’s vowed to visit a similar fate upon them.”

            Mara’s face, already pale, went white as snow. Daveth didn’t know what happened to Fergus’ family – it had to be pretty fucking bad – but he’d never seen Milady Mara look so bloody terrified. “If you find them first, kill them. It will be kinder.”

            Rory looked relieved to have an order he could follow. “Yes, Lady Cousland. But about Redcliffe…?”

            “We will be going there after Orzammar,” Alistair promised, speaking for the first time. “Tell Fergus Cousland that his sister’s husband, Teyrn Alistair of the Avvar, will do all that’s asked of him but the promises we made to the Wardens come first and always did.”

            “The Avvar are organised?” Rory sounded scared.

            “Only to fight the darkspawn,” Mara said in that hoarse whisper of hers. “They’ll only fight Howe if he gets in the way.”

            “That won’t please him.” Rory looked at Cailan, who regarded him coldly.

            “Tell Fergus Cousland that I’ll answer to the Landsmeet for my actions willingly. If they choose to remove the crown, then he can challenge Anora for the Mabari Throne then. If he harms Anora or occupies Denerim, then brother-in-law or not, I’ll pike his head at Fort Drakon.”

            “Yes… Your Majesty.” Rory’s voice was but a thread now. Probably some poor bastard just following orders.

            “I’m glad to see you survived Highever, Ser Gilmore,” Mara told him.

            “I’m relieved you survived Ostagar, Lady Cousland,” the knight responded, allowing a bit of inappropriate warmth to sneak into his tone. “I fear that when all of this is done, you may become Teyrna.”

            He stepped back and saluted, fist to chest, before looking to his guards. “The dwarves won’t see us. Let’s go.”

            Mara watched them leave sadly. “Fergus, what are you becoming?” she asked mournfully.

            “What war makes many. It isn’t a good thing, but it just is,” Alistair told her gently. “Hakkon’s touch is on your brother now. It will be up to him if he chooses to find a new path when his vengeance is complete.”

            Duncan stepped forward and offered the treaties to the gate guard, who looked them over critically. “Warden, it’s a damned mess in there and only our King can be compelled to fulfil the treaty,” he told the Warden-Commander.

            “I know,” Duncan answered gravely. “But Orzammar _must_ be alerted to the danger. If the darkspawn have all the surface world to corrupt…”

            “Preaching to the choir, as the Andrasteans say,” the guard said grimly. “A shame Brosca isn’t with you. Duster or not, that woman would settle the Assembly right down.”

            Duncan’s eyes screamed the pain he couldn’t voice, making Daveth look away. “I know.”

            The gate-guard stepped aside as the gates slowly opened. “The King of Ferelden and the Teyrn of the Avvar are welcome too. Surfacer nobles may have three guards and seven servants each, Kings double that.”

            “Leandra, can you please return to the camp? I need you to oversee things while I’m in Orzammar,” Mara said quickly to the older Hawke woman. “Please send back Leliana and Brother Genitivi for the Chantry and… hmm… Morrigan, if she’ll come.”

            “Tell Amund he is my second at the camp,” Alistair added. “Please ask Thane Svarah to join me if she wishes.”

            Leandra inclined her head gracefully, offering a sketchy curtsey. She was a Kirkwall nob who answered to Mara as sort of a second like Cauthrien for the Wardens or Amund for the Avvar. “As you wish, Lady Cousland, Lord Teyrn.”

            Cailan, who pretty much didn’t have any servants with him as the knights had been integrated into Alistair’s bigger warband, smiled wryly and stood by his brother’s side. He was a dumb nob getting smarter, slowly but surely, and maybe he might turn out better. If not, he’d wind up with the Avvar or the Wardens, perhaps. Or dead. Daveth really didn’t care.

            The doors fully opened and they entered Orzammar. It smelt like stone and heat, big-arse statues of dwarves lining the place with real dwarves treating them like statues of gods. “The Paragons of Orzammar,” Mara said reverently. “Treat this as a holy place, for it’s as close to one as the dwarves possess.”

            Duncan walked up to one of them, an older statue that was carved with a casteless brand, and laid something at its feet. “Gherlen, the Casteless Paragon, watch over your descendant Brytta, Warden-Constable of Orzammar,” he murmured heartbrokenly as he dropped a heart-shaped pendant of red crystal that was too pale for ruby. “She was one of your shards who returned to the Stone fighting darkspawn.”

            Someone, a dwarven woman who made Daveth think of an uptight nob matron, gasped in deliberate disgust but shut her mouth when Duncan looked in her direction. The half-Chasind didn’t know why, so he approached Milady Mara, who pretty much knew everything.

            “Brytta was technically an Aeducan by marriage,” Mara murmured, reading his expression correctly. “That’s how noble hunters bring their family up from the Dust: get knocked up by a noble, be taken into the family home, and if the child is male, then she and her family are granted the House name so long as the boy lives. Same for the very rare male noble hunters and the hundred or so liaisons between casted and casteless. Bhelen fell head over heels for Rica Brosca, Brytta’s sister, and married her in defiance of the Assembly. You know how Brytta came to the attention of the Wardens? Well, one of the sharper Shaperate scholars looked back and realised that Brosca was the name of Paragon Gherlen’s casteless daughter. For the sake of the succession after Sereda and Trian Aeducan managed to kill each other, reportedly through the manipulations of Bhelen, the marriage was recognised and Rica took the name Aeducan. Brytta chose to keep the name Brosca and that is the name she’s remembered by in the Memories.”

            “There’s no ‘reportedly’ about it,” retorted a male dwarf in fine armour. “Bhelen saw his two elder siblings dead and would take the throne now if he could.”

            From the little Daveth knew about the dwarven nobs, or the diamond-castes as Bryt called them, most of them were hidebound wankers interested in their own privilege. Bhelen was a ruthless little shit but he apparently wanted to make things better for the lower castes and casteless, even before he married Bryt’s sister.

            Morrigan, the two Chantry folks, and Thane Svarah joined them. The witch looked around interestedly, the Seeker stared in open wonder, the Chantry scholar didn’t seem interested and the Thane was calm.

            “I’m only repeating what is known on the surface,” Mara told the dwarf, who probably supported this Harrowmount, as Alistair watched the man with the lazy look of an unimpressed lion.

            “Piotin Aeducan,” Duncan rasped as he rose to his feet. “Do you have proof to deliver to the Assembly before making such accusations?”

            “I don’t need proof,” the dwarf replied, looking uneasy. “Bhelen will use any tool to undermine the Assembly and Warden-Constable Brosca was the bluntest.”

            Cauthrien and Carver quickly exchanged looks and went to Duncan’s sides to grab his arms as Jowan glared at the man and Zevran simply looked disinterested. Daveth, on the other hand, was faster than all of them and punched the stupid nob bastard in the mouth. “Dunno nothing about this Bhelen, but you fucking insult Bryt’s memory again and I’ll fucking kick your arse around the Proving Arena,” he informed the nob flatly. “Brytta was worth ten of you, Milord Piotin, and died fighting darkspawn while you and your nob buddies played politics.”

            Piotin wiped his bloody mouth, eyes glittering. “Brosca made no secret of her allegiance, Warden-Constable, and dishonoured the Wardens’ neutrality,” he countered. “You cloudheads don’t know any better – and you look like a surfacer Duster besides – so you don’t understand the damage she did to the Stone.”

            “Enough!” spat one of the guards. “If you two start brawling, I’ll throw the pair of you in prison!”

            “Don’t worry, not gonna hit this sack of nugshit in case it splatters on me nice new armour,” Daveth drawled, enjoying the way Piotin’s eyes lit up with rage. “Bryt was like a mum to me, made me the Warden I am today, and I don’t like her memory being insulted.”

            “I will refrain from challenging this surfacer out of respect for the Wardens,” Piotin snarled. “I advise, Warden-Commander, you keep a leash on him while you’re in Orzammar.”

            He stalked off as Mara and Cailan exchanged looks. “Can’t say as I’m sorry to see Piotin punched in the mouth,” the King of Ferelden observed dryly. “Unpleasant sort of chap.”

            “Daveth hasn’t exactly endeared the Wardens any more to the Assembly with his gesture,” Mara said with a sigh.

            Duncan shrugged off Carver and Cauthrien’s hands, walking over to Daveth. “Thank you, Daveth,” he told the half-Chasind softly. “I would have killed him and damn the consequences.”

            “Hey, you gave me the jobs Cauthrien can’t do, and that includes punching nob wankers,” Daveth answered.

            “I’m capable of punching nobility when I must,” Cauthrien protested mildly. “Had he used similar words about Teyrn Loghain, I would have done worse.”

            “Yeah, well, ain’t going to tolerate Bryt being badmouthed,” Daveth said. “Let’s go bitch at these idiot nobs at the Assembly, yeah?”

            He strode towards the second set of gates. Orzammar had better get ready because the Wardens (and Milady Mara, Alistair and Cailan, who were almost honorary Wardens) were going to give them a much-needed arse kicking.


	19. Tired of Politics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, fantastic racism and violence. Shorter chapter than usual. Some implied intercourse.

“Political discussion amongst the dwarves is certainly spirited,” Cailan observed blandly as the bodies of several supporters from both sides of the succession struggle were dragged away by angry-looking guards.

            “Be glad it’s not usually so spirited at the Landsmeet or you’d be dead already,” Mara said acidly, shaken by the news Ser Gilmore had shared.

            “If your brother has any say about it, Lady Cousland, it will be,” Cailan retorted, just as acidly. He rightfully feared for Anora’s life but Mara was no enemy of his.

            Alistair stepped between the two of them. “Enough,” he told them both. “Cailan has made it known he will go to the Landsmeet when he can to face their judgment and Mara isn’t responsible for her brother’s actions. I won’t have my kin fight.”

            Cailan’s smile was a little bitter. “I’m not blaming her, little brother. You heard Ser Gilmore – he hopes she will become Teyrna. If Fergus has become as bad as was implied, the Highever bannorn might just overthrow him and choose Mara themselves.”

            “We’ll deal with that if it happens,” Alistair said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “But we three must work together.”

            Mara sighed. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” she apologised. “It was an unworthy remark.”

            “I understand, Lady Cousland. It’s difficult when the only weapon you have is sarcasm.” Cailan’s expression twisted bitterly. “I find myself hoping Loghain is alive and kicking Fergus’ arse on Anora’s behalf just in case I fail.”

            Mara’s lips tightened but she said nothing. Loyalty to her brother warred with loyalty to Ferelden as a whole, Alistair knew, and she was hoping that her brother would be freed from Hakkon’s touch. He sighed inwardly. It wasn’t going to happen.

            The common quarter of Orzammar was tan and beige, the carving worn down and ancient through centuries of footsteps, and they stood in what was called the Street of the Outsiders, where the hostels for the surfacer and wealthy casteless traders permitted to enter were. When the Avvar came to treat with the dwarves, they stayed here in a house carved with Korth’s totems.

            One of the deshyrs who stood and watched in horror as Bhelen and Harrowmount’s warriors attacked each other approached them, calculation on a round handsome face. Like all the females of her kind, she was lushly curved beneath her green silk gown, dark hair neatly arranged into a bun at the back of her head. “Deshyr Nerav Helmi at your service, Wardens,” she greeted formally. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

            Alistair performed an Avvar bow, a Teyrn greeting a Thane, as Duncan nodded solemnly. “As are we,” the Warden-Commander said flatly. “We’ve come to claim the treaties.”

            “I thought as much.” Nerav sighed, shaking her head mournfully. “I support Harrowmount, I won’t lie, but the Wardens lost a great fighter in Brytta Brosca. I’m sorry for your loss.”

            “Thank you, Lady Helmi.” Duncan bowed belatedly as Nerav looked up at Alistair, Cailan and Mara.

            “Stone-met, King Cailan. I’ve heard troubling things about the political situation on the surface.”

            Cailan inclined his head regally. “Aye. And the Orlesians aren’t even responsible for a change.”

            Nerav laughed ruefully. “No, I hear it’s Rendon Howe and Fergus Cousland fighting in the north. Are you here for the Assembly? There’s some discussion on embargoing Howe for destroying Highever and Orzammar’s preferred seaport.”

            “I should prefer there was discussion on choosing a ruler to replace the wise and just King Endrin,” Cailan replied with a hint of sorrow. “My father considered Endrin a close and personal friend and, if it isn’t too presumptive of me, I saw him as something of an honorary uncle.”

            “Pyral Harrowmount is a man of great honour and integrity,” Nerav replied. “He wants to remain true to the way of the Stone, not blast everything to pieces for the sake of building something that mightn’t work from the rubble.”

            “Something needs to be done to make use of the casteless’ numbers,” Cailan pointed out quietly.

            “Not every Duster is a Brytta Brosca or Gherlen the Blood-Risen,” Nerav answered with a sigh. “They have avenues to improve their lives if they want to take them, both here and on the surface.”

            Alistair thought the idea of condemning a person for the sins of their ancestors was foolish, but he had no wish to tread on something sacred like the Stone. “Stone-met, Deshyr Nerav An Korth O Helmi. I am Alistair Ar Fiona ac Maric O Skyhold, Teyrn of the Avvar in this time of Blight.”

            “The surfacers must love that,” Nerav noted dryly as she inclined her head politely. “How’d a Theirin son become an Avvar?”

            “My mother was a Warden and Duncan took me to the Avvar at her request,” Alistair said quietly. “I was acclaimed Teyrn in battle by the Alamarri I led against darkspawn and then voted Teyrn of the Avvar after the Test of the Lady.”

            “Ah.” Nerav’s dark eyes were opaque as she looked over at Mara, cold and remote as the mountaintops.

            “Lady Mara Cousland ac Theirin at your service,” his wife said with a slight bow.

            “A pretty tangle topside indeed,” Nerav said, not unsympathetically.

            The rest of the party were introduced and Nerav greeted them all politely. “The Wardens have their compound near the entrance to the Diamond Quarter and the nobility amongst you is rated rooms in the Palace,” she explained quietly. “Of course, that’s if you can stand to be in the same place as that kinslayer Bhelen.”

            “Is the problem that he’s a kinslayer, my lady, or that his intrigues were figured out?” Zevran asked thoughtfully. “I am trying to understand dwarven politics, you see.”

            “Both,” Nerav said bluntly. “Trian was to marry my daughter, who had enough brains to make up his lack of them-“

            “Milady Mara must know what that’s like, being smarter’n Alistair and all,” Daveth quipped to Bethany, making her laugh with a blush.

            “And should Mistress Bethany choose to dally with you, it too will be a situation she shall become acquainted with,” Morrigan crooned, earning a real laugh from Zevran.

            “-And Sereda was ruthless enough to withstand the Assembly, not a bad thing when Blight was on our doorstep,” Nerav finished, throwing a wry look at the Wardens with a slight shake of the head. “Both could have ruled well with the right advice. Bhelen… Some of his ideas are good ones, but most are not, and he – forgive me Warden-Commander when I say this – took advantage of Warden-Constable Brosca’s natural gratitude to him for taking care of her sister that he used her as a blunt weapon.”

            “There were only a few types of people in Brytta’s world,” Duncan answered gravely. “Those who were her family and friends, those who were useful, those who weren’t and those who needed to die. Bhelen was family to her.”

            “I know and that was the tragedy of it,” Nerav said sadly. “Brytta earned her place in the Wardens but she should have stayed with you more. It might have slowed down Bhelen’s poisonous influence in the Assembly.”

            She leaned on her ornamental staff and shook her head again. “What’s done is done. Please consider what I’ve said about Harrowmount, because I think you will play a hand in this before it comes to an end.”

            The deshyr bowed and took herself off with the solemn dignity of her kind.

            “We will discuss this at the Warden compound,” Duncan said, turning to them. “If you have no wish to be embroiled in dwarven politics more than you need to, you’re welcome to stay with us.”

            The non-Wardens exchanged glances and it was Alistair who nodded. “It will show that we are part of your alliance against the darkspawn,” he told the dark-skinned man.

            “Indeed.”

            Duncan led them to the Warden compound, a building that stood out as it was carved from cloudy white granite flecked with grey like the legendary griffins, and was let in with a sharp salute from one of the dwarven Wardens. “Warden-Constable Sigrun would see you, sir,” the Warden-Commander was told.

            “Daveth, Cauthrien, with me. Everyone else, find somewhere to sleep. Jowan, make sure the guest rooms are prepared for King Cailan and his entourage.”

            “Yes, sir,” Jowan, the weedy shaman-born who kept to himself, agreed softly. “If you would follow me.”

            According to Cailan, the Wardens’ guest rooms weren’t as nice as the ones at the Palace, but no one here would try to drag them into politics. Jowan made the observation that there were fewer Wardens than there should be, receiving the answer that Warden-Constable Sigrun made them go to the Deep Roads to help the Legion of the Dead and find signs of the Paragon Branka, the only one who could end the apparent deadlock in the Assembly. That made sense, because even Duncan had bowed to the pressure of politics when Alistair married Mara.

            “I wonder if outsiders can go to the Shaperate,” she wondered as she unpacked their meagre packs.

            “I’ll ask tomorrow, love,” he promised. “How are you… coping?”

            “By understanding Bhelen’s reasons for setting Trian and Sereda up,” she replied in a cheerfully brittle tone. “I’m worried that I may need to stand against Fergus in the end to protect Ferelden.”

            “I’ll get Zevran to kill him. That way, the elf can say he killed a Cousland and you won’t have your brother’s blood on your hands,” Alistair offered in all seriousness.

            “No!” Mara’s tone was sharper than he expected. “If… I must face Fergus as an enemy, I’ll do it openly in the Landsmeet. ‘If you would pass the sentence, be prepared to carry it out yourself’ was what Father used to tell us.”

            She removed her armour and reached for the plain blue dress she’d had sewn on the surface. “We should go see the damage in the Assembly. None of the Wardens, except perhaps Zevran, know what to look for.”

            “Must we do it today?” Alistair found himself asking. “I would like a few hours free of dwarven politics, lowlander politics and darkspawn.”

            Mara, wearing her shift, paused and nodded slowly. “I’ve been waiting for a proper bed,” she said cryptically before smiling up at him.

            In the end, the words weren’t so cryptic, and Alistair wound up learning what an Antivan Milk Sandwich was. When Mara gave her heart, she gave it totally. Afterwards, he curled around her and prayed that when they married properly, he would be able to untie many knots in the rope.


	20. Lords of the Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for fantastic racism. The Orzammar sequence will be Mara’s turn to shine. Spoilers for Descent.

“How about I shove my vote where deepstalkers wouldn’t go?”

            “Enough!” snapped a weary-voiced moderator on the floor of the Assembly. “We have guests.”

            Eyes swung in the direction of the Wardens and those accompanying them. Duncan, Alistair and Cailan had remained at the Wardens’ Compound to go over plans for the army that still remained topside, so that left Mara to travel the streets of the Diamond Quarter and discover (as best she could) the political currents that ran through this place. Daveth, Zevran and Wynne accompanied her while Morrigan, Jowan, Carver and Svarah wandered the common quarter doing much the same.

            “Please, don’t stop on my account,” Mara observed dryly as she descended the steps. “I’ve always found the deliberations of any decision-making body – be it Landsmeet or Assembly – educational.”

            Steward Bandelor smiled tightly as a few deshyrs grumbled at perceived insult in her words. “You are welcome, Lady Cousland… or is it Theirin?”

            “Lady Cousland if you’re addressing me by title or Lady Cousland ac Theirin if we’re being ridiculously formal, Lord Steward,” Mara replied with a regal nod to the man. “If I’ve interrupted a sensitive debate, I can return another time.”

            “Nothing sensitive, Lady Cousland, but I must admit it’s troubling that surfacer nobility is seeing the Assembly at its worst,” Bandelor sighed, looking pointedly at the two argumentative deshyrs.

            “If you’ve heard the rumours topside, then you’ll know the Landsmeet isn’t on its best behaviour at the moment,” Mara pointed out, a hint of bitterness in her words. She remembered the look of fear in Rory’s eyes when he discussed Fergus and the almost pathetic hopeful gleam when he spoke of her becoming Teyrna. “At the worst possible time, no less.”

            “In a Blight, some see duty and others see opportunity,” observed a grave, grey-haired man in a fine geometrically-woven silk doublet, regarding a younger, fair-haired man in fine gilded armour sitting across the Assembly chamber. “Your own choice – to put the Blight above the ambitions of your family – is commendable and an honour to your Ancestors.”

            The fair-haired dwarf bowed slightly in Mara’s direction. “And some will use whatever evidence they can fabricate to claim a title not rightfully theirs, _Lord Harrowmount_ ,” he retorted. “Who can say what my fevered father said during those last hours with only you at his side?”

            “He told me that your lips let loose the words that saw Trian and Sereda dead by each other’s hand, _Prince Bhelen_ ,” countered Harrowmount with the perfect amount of aggrieved sorrow and insult. “I promised him I would do whatever it would take to make certain you never sit the throne!”

            Bandelor threw an apologetic glance at Mara and the Wardens. “As you can see, things are… heated.”

            “Stretch them by about two feet and I could call them the Landsmeet,” Mara agreed with a hint of acid in her voice. “Playing the fiddle like King Naros while the Commons of Kal-Hirol burned.”

Nerav Helmi barked with laughter as a few of the deshyrs goggled, stunned that a surfacer would know _that_ particular legend. Bandelor visibly collected himself, smoothing down his doublet and calling an end to this session of the Assembly. When the deshyrs filed out, the Steward approached Mara and the Wardens, a hint of anger in his eyes that the noblewoman prayed wasn’t directed at her.

“Sodding deep lords with their heads up a-“ he muttered under his breath before inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. Then he coughed awkwardly. “I apologise for the coarse language, Lady Cousland.”

For some reason, Mara, Zevran and Wynne looked at Daveth and said in unison, “We’ve heard worse.”

For some reason, Daveth tried and failed to maintain an innocently injured expression.

“Warden-Constable Daveth’s striking of Piotin Aeducan certainly divided the Assembly. Some of the deshyrs wanted him whipped from Orzammar while others suggested the Key to the City,” Bandelor observed dryly.

“It’s simple: they don’t disrespect Brytta Brosca’s memory and I don’t punch them,” Daveth answered calmly. “Duncan woulda killed him.”

“Ah.” Bandelor sighed. “Prince Bhelen put forth his sister-in-law’s name for Paragon status when we received word about Ostagar. It’s produced some ugly debate that was exacerbated by the succession crisis.”

Zevran, the Warden with the most elegant manners, offered the treaties to Bandelor. “Can the Assembly ratify this? Fighting darkspawn topside might keep the warriors too busy to fight down here.”

“If only. Regrettably, only Orzammar’s monarch may send troops to aid the Grey Wardens.” Bandelor sighed once more, looking exhausted. “I will be honest, Lady Cousland – Harrowmount and Bhelen will try to embroil you and the Theirin brothers into their schemes.”

“Two thirds of the Warden garrison here were sent into the Deep Roads to find Paragon Branka?” Mara asked quietly.

“To end this stalemate, yes. Sigrun is much more ostensibly neutral than Brytta, who Conscripted some of Bhelen’s more martially inclined enemies and didn’t even bother pretending it was anything other than a favour to her brother-in-law,” Bandelor confirmed carefully. “She led the party into the Deep Roads, which means…”

“We’ll put the Orzammar Wardens under Ser Cauthrien, Constable of the Grey’s command,” Daveth said. “I handle the, umm, err…”

“Daveth deals with the logistical duties while Ser Cauthrien handles the military side of things,” Mara explained more tactfully. “Duncan took Brytta’s death very hard, so he’s training those two up to fulfil his duties while maintaining the administrative part of the job.”

Bandelor looked regretful. “Duncan is a fine man and I mourn for his loss. At least with Brytta around, no matter how crude her methods, we would have a conclusion to this bickering. There isn’t even a compromise third candidate we can vote in, I fear.”

Daveth’s jaw tensed and Mara glanced at him. “Brytta treated Bhelen like he was a member of her Carta,” she told the Warden bluntly. “Of course, she was more open about what she did than many nobles who do favours for those they consider allies, but… it was still nepotism.”

“Exactly,” Bandelor agreed. “In Orzammar, Wardens are only neutral if they have no friends.”

The Steward looked up at the doors that led outside. “The only ones with any authority to do anything are Bhelen and Harrowmount, Lady Cousland, Wardens. They will approach you through their seconds, no doubt, as both the Cousland and Theirin names could add a little weight – not to mention the reputation of the Wardens.”

Mara allowed herself a sigh. “Is there any way we could help without choosing a side?”

“I fear not, Lady Cousland.” Bandelor shook his head in weary frustration. “The best we can hope for is Sigrun returning with Paragon Branka to settle the deadlock.”

Wynne smiled sympathetically at the man. “Forgive me for changing the subject, but how does one go about gaining access to the Shaperate? Lady Cousland and I wish to research all we can on darkspawn.”

“As honoured guests to Orzammar, you have access to the public Memories and the books we’ve collected from the surface,” Bandelor immediately replied. “More than that, speak to Master Shaper Czibor.”

“Thank you,” Mara said gratefully. “Wynne, we might as well go to the Shaperate now.”

“Book hunger, Lady Cousland?” Wynne, who had diagnosed her with Half-Tranquility and told her disappointed parents there was nothing wrong with her, only a different perspective on the world, asked warmly.

“Of course,” Mara admitted. She’d read the tattered book Alistair gave her three times and gone through all of the literature rescued from Haven. She’d even read _Darktown’s Deal_ by Varric Tethras, borrowed from an Avvar trader

Wynne chuckled as Zevran and Daveth exchanged glances. “I will follow these two beautiful ladies,” the elf informed the half-Chasind. “You go tell the brothers what is going on.”

“Fine. You kill ‘em, I’ll stuff you down the archdemon’s throat,” Daveth announced with cheerful malice.

“That’s not the only way I’ve been down the archdemon’s throat,” Zevran drawled, winking at Mara and Wynne. “He never writes anymore, I’m sad to say.”

Mara blushed red as a ruby as Wynne laughed softly. “We’re leaving,” Lady Cousland announced as Steward Bandelor chuckled, finally getting the joke. “Now.”

…

The Master Shaper stared as Mara closed the last book she’d selected from the shelves of the public archives and set it aside after scribbling down some notes with charcoal on scrap paper. Fluent in modern dwarven runes thanks to her father’s coin, she devoured the books in only a few hours as she couldn’t take them to the compound to read at leisure. Now she had enough to put in a request for the Shaperate to research more from the Memories.

            “Impressive,” Czibor said after Wynne, a more leisurely reader who liked to savour her books, pored over a tome claiming that Andraste was a mage with great curiosity. “You focus almost like a Shaper.”

            “Lady Cousland is what the surfacers call Half-Tranquil,” Wynne explained, not looking up from her book. “It gives her trouble in social settings but makes her a scholar unrivalled outside of the Chantry, the Circle, the great universities or the Shaperate, and a match for many within those institutions.”

            “Ah.” Czibor looked thoughtful. “Lady Cousland, may we have a word?”

            Mara rose to her feet and nodded to Zevran. Cu was in the camp as two of the female mabaris there had gone into heat, and the king-hound’s pedigree was worth his weight in gold when it came to breeding fees, so he’d join her when he was done.

            _I might be having puppies myself,_ she thought with a little smile. Alistair had been taught well by Eileen, his first wife, and did his best to be mindful of her quirks. She was rather enjoying bedsport with him, in fact.

            “Lady Cousland?” Czibor asked and Mara blushed as she realised they were in the small alcove within sight of Wynne and Zevran, but just outside of hearing distance. It seemed the Shaper had repeated her name.

            “I’m sorry. I was thinking of my husband,” she admitted wryly.

            The old dwarf smiled indulgently. “I understand. My wife is still lovely in my eyes forty years after my marriage to her. May it be so for you and Teyrn Alistair.”

            “Thank you.” Mara folded her arms and looked down at the Shaper. “How can I help you?”

            The Shaper sighed, looking weary. “On a personal level, I would like your account of Ostagar, as well as anyone else who was there. We need witnesses who can attest to the end of Brytta Brosca and her actions as a Grey Warden, not to mention the fact that while we look to the Stone, the events at Ostagar will affect us all.”

            “I can help you. I’ll provide written transcripts.”

            “Please. The Wardens can provide both their stories and… well… their thoughts to the Memories of the Grey.” The Shaper looked significantly at a griffin-carved section of wall etched with runes. “They were created by the first Warden-Shaper a thousand years ago and just before a Warden goes on their Calling, they share their memories with us for future generations should the Grey somehow be wiped out.”

            “That’s a relief to know,” Mara said quietly.

            “Indeed.” Czibor’s expression became even more serious. “Bhelen is adulterating and even falsifying public records to try and defeat Lord Harrowmount. I’ll… not deny that I’m Harrowmount’s cousin, but as one scholar to another, you must be surely horrified by him doing this. Please let your husband and King Cailan know because… well, they are fine men as the Theirins all are, but neither are, ah, partial to academics the way you are.”

            “Cailan rather enjoys reading and Alistair asked me to pick up some books of strategy from the booksellers,” Mara replied, doing her best to keep the waspish tone from her voice. She needed this man but… he’d insulted her husband’s intelligence.

            “Cailan reads bad Orlesian romances and literature fit for noble hunters,” Czibor said bluntly. “And while I am certain your husband is better read than he looks, he still lacks the discerning intelligence of a scholar. I would hate for two fine men, son of King Endrin’s closest surfacer friend outside of Duncan, to be deceived by Bhelen’s trickery.”

            “I’ll pass word on,” Mara promised – and that was all. “How do you feel, may I ask, about Brytta Brosca becoming a Paragon?”

            Czibor’s lips tightened. “Warden-Constable Brosca was… elevated by favouritism, a form of noble hunting if you will. The woman was competent, I’ll grant, but she was blatantly Bhelen’s toady.”

            “I see. And this makes her different from the lesser nobility who cluster around the great Houses… how?” Mara didn’t bother to hide her dryly sardonic tone.

            “King Endrin should have ordered Duncan to make sure she never returned to Orzammar,” Czibor answered calmly. “I’m relieved she’s dead and hope to the Ancestors she doesn’t become a Paragon. That will only legitimise the casteless further.”

            Mara bit her tongue. She _liked_ Brytta, who taught her of life as a casteless and shared some of the rogue’s tricks Mara used. She could see where Czibor was coming from in a way, but how many more Bryttas rotted in Dust Town?

“Thank you for your candour,” she said before inclining her head. “If that is all, I need to remind my husband we’re married.”

Czibor chuckled. “I doubt any man could forget he was wed to you, Lady Cousland. Return in two days and I will have transcripts from the Memories for your research – a small favour for speaking to your husband and his brother about Bhelen’s tricks.”

“Thank you.” Mara curtsied politely and left, collecting Wynne and Zevran on the way. Whether she liked it or not, they were going to have to stir the pot in Orzammar. Ferelden depended on it.


	21. The Men Who Would Be King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for fantastic racism. I have a head-canon that when the Wardens submitted to the Chantry, they extracted a treaty from them just as they did with the mages, dwarves and Dalish.

“If anyone actually knew what being a King entailed, they’d run in the other direction so fast smoke would rise from their tracks,” Cailan Theirin observed bitterly, and perhaps a little drunkenly, at the party Lady Nerav Helmi insisted on throwing – as if people of all castes and none weren’t bleeding out in the street because of Harrowmount’s posturing.

            Bhelen Aeducan sympathised with the fair-haired monarch, who reminded him of a better-natured Trian, and sighed mournfully. “If I thought that another ruler would take Orzammar in the direction it needs to, I’d happily cede my claim to theirs,” he replied after a sip of Orlesian wine to wet his lips.

            “If Fergus Cousland wasn’t reportedly doing his best to butcher half of Amaranthine, I’d cheerfully hand him the Mabari Throne and move to the Frostbacks with my brother,” Cailan confided sadly. He wore a gold-piped saffron doublet with slashes of cream and comfortable breeches in the dwarven style; Bhelen detected the hand of Mara Cousland, who despite disclaiming any knowledge of the finer womanly arts, had a knack for selecting outfits that flattered their wearers and proclaimed their rank in subtle ways.

            The Prince looked in the direction of said brother, a powerhouse of a man even by surfacer standards who wore fur-trimmed brown leather with that magnificent red fur cloak, speaking to Harrowmount with the broad, expressive gestures the Avvar preferred. “Your brother seems impressed by Lord Harrowmount,” he noted neutrally.

            “Alistair is a fine man and a mighty warrior, but the finer points of court politics will always escape him,” Cailan admitted. “Harrowmount has an honourable reputation and his House has traded with Ramhold fairly.”

            “A good way to get both sides of the story, I suppose,” Bhelen conceded. He couldn’t fault the topside nobles for speaking to both sides, only hope that they would see the rightfulness of his claim. With Sigrun and most of the Wardens vanished in the Deep Roads in pursuit of Branka, he needed every edge he could get. “How stand the Wardens?”

            “Daveth and Duncan for you – obviously, as one sees Brytta much like a mother-figure and the other was her husband – Cauthrien and Carver thinking much like my little brother does, and Zevran and Jowan neutral,” Cailan said, looking over at the Wardens.

            Bhelen nodded, mourning the loss of his brash bold sister-in-law. Rica had been devastated at the death of the sister who sacrificed so much, so very much, to raise them from the Dust while Bhelen missed the woman who, if Warrior Caste, would have been made Paragon for her actions already. Most of Orzammar, even his own supporters, assumed he mourned for the loss of her influence and ability to Conscript, which Bhelen was honest enough (with himself) to admit the truth in that, but he also regretted the woman’s staunch loyalty and unfailing faith in him. Rica was his better half, always seeing the good in people, while Brytta had taught him the true meaning of perseverance, endurance and service.

            Duncan was death warmed over, most of his vitality gone, and Bhelen wished they could just mourn together as family should. The surfacer’s infinite patience and experience tempered Brytta’s force and fury while she got the man out of a rut with her energy. He was family and if anyone said otherwise, inside or outside House Aeducan, Bhelen would have them killed, if Rica didn’t beat him to it.

            The Prince looked from his kinsman to the best thing to ever enter his life. Rica, still lovely despite a slight thickening of the waist from her second pregnancy, was talking calmly to Piotin. His cousin was still angry about Trian’s death, as he’d been the late heir to the throne’s right-hand man _and_ defeated by Brytta when she was disguised in the Provings. His wife kept on trying to talk the warrior into supporting him, perhaps as a way to cope with Brytta’s loss. If Bhelen mourned the Warden, Rica was utterly devastated but would never show it. She was born to be Queen and never mind the brand on her cheek.

            He smiled at Rica when she looked in his direction, an expression of love and support, and she returned it sadly before going back to her conversation. Bhelen’s eyes wandered through the crowd, noting that Lady Mara Cousland was talking with Steward Bandelor, Shaper Czibor and Nerav Helmi, striking in her deep royal blue velvet gown where most of the other female guests wore bright hues and jewels. “And Lady Cousland?”

            “Neutral. Poor woman has enough on her plate with her brother’s idiocy,” Cailan said grimly, draining his goblet of wine dry. “If the Landsmeet doesn’t decide in Fergus’ favour and retains me as King, I’m going to pike his head. It’s one thing to kill your enemies but another to announce you will do so slowly.”

            Bhelen saw something he could do for Cailan as a brother royal, if he wanted. “Rendon Howe has hired a good many mercenaries out from under the Merchants’ Guild in Nevarra and they aren’t happy while Fergus Cousland is looking to the Free Marches and Antiva. I can send word to Bartrand Tethras in Kirkwall to start buying up contracts in the Free Marches for me now that Cousland’s begun to hire and sell them to you at a discount on the condition of, ah, trade concessions to Kirkwall’s kalna families.”

            “I won’t turn mercenaries against my own people,” Cailan said grimly. “Now if they were for the Blight… Of course, you shouldn’t _tell_ them that before they come to Ferelden, just say they are to finish the civil war before the darkspawn takes us all…”

            “I can do that much as Prince,” Bhelen agreed, and it was true. “Harrowmount is no doubt playing up my ruthlessness to your brother and essentially trying to use his house’s trade with the Avvar as a stick. If I were King, I would denounce Howe _and_ Cousland as traitors and offer Ferelden trade bargains conducive on you keeping their crown…”

            “Extend that to Anora becoming Queen if I should die and I’ll definitely think about it,” Cailan agreed, looking a bit more cheerful. “Maker knows that poor woman’s endured enough because of me and kept the country running.”

            “I can do that. In return for open support of me, of course.” Bhelen knew that a surfacer King’s word wouldn’t count for a lot in the Assembly, but he needed every bit of support he could get.

            “I’ll do it,” Cailan decided. “I can’t speak for Alistair because he has to think about the needs of the Avvar and Mara… Well, she won’t support Fergus while he’s acting like a tyrant but she won’t move against her brother either, and she thinks both you and Harrowmount are spoilt idiots at the moment.”

            Bhelen nodded. “I can’t fault her. I’m… not the nicest of people, but we have known about the Blight for five years, and had warning signs ten years ago. We need a single leader, a sole commander, in the alliance against the ultimate evil. If Harrowmount had his way, the surface would be wiped out by the darkspawn because he is under the mistaken delusion that Orzammar can hold out against the horde forever. We need the casteless and the surfacer dwarves – kalna and Ascendant alike – to survive.”

            “A certain amount of ruthlessness is necessary in a monarch,” Cailan agreed. “Anora has it and… well, the Blight’s teaching me it. My little brother is already a hardened warrior and his wife can be coldly pragmatic when she must be.”

            “You understand. Harrowmount himself is a fine, noble man who is no worse than your average deshyr. But his conservatism blinds him to the real changes that must be made for Orzammar’s sake and he will lead the kingdom down to stagnation and ruin.” Bhelen took a deep breath as he realised he was orating to the converted. “My apologies, I’ve been talking so long about this it becomes second nature to deliver a speech on the subject.”

            Cailan smirked. “You’re no worse than Anora.” He looked over at the Wardens. “I better go see how Daveth’s doing. He sees absolutely nothing wrong with Brytta’s actions as your ally and, being Chasind, he’s even more ruthless when he wants to be.”

            “A certain amount of subtlety is needed,” Bhelen agreed with a chuckle. “Could you please explain to your brother and Lady Cousland why I’m doing this? I hate this disunity at a time of Blight as much as they.”

            “I’ll tell them, but I can’t promise they’ll agree,” Cailan promised.

            “I only ask that you tell them,” Bhelen assured him. He could adapt his plans to benefit both the Avvar and Highever if they supported his bid for King.

            Brytta had taught him that: make honest deals and keep them unless betrayed by the other party. In her memory, he would honour that sage piece of advice, and save Orzammar from the useless Noble Caste.

…

Pyral Harrowmount knew he was making headway with Alistair of the Avvar. No doubt Cailan, never an intelligent man to begin with, had fallen prey to Bhelen’s reasoned and plausible arguments but the Avvar knew and understood honour. They were almost dwarf-like in their reverence for the Stone, though they worshipped the topside rock called mountains where it clawed into the sky, but that was to be expected when their main goddess – who they called Ancestress – was the sky itself. They respected staying true to the old ways and that was what Harrowmount needed in a surfacer ally.

            “Cailan will agree with Bhelen,” Alistair confirmed sadly. “Bhelen is much like Anora, my wife tells me, but without the latter’s concern for her country.”

            “And Cailan is used to being browbeaten by Anora,” Harrowmount agreed with a sigh. “Your brother is a fine man, but not one of nature’s geniuses. In Orzammar, he would be a Proving Champion, honoured and respected but given no real responsibility. And he would be happy with that.”

            It was as tactful as he could get in implying Cailan was an idiot. Alistair, like all Avvar, was intensely loyal to his blood – even if only discovering it three months ago.

            It seemed the Teyrn of the Avvar had already figured out, judging by the wry shrug he gave. “My wife is neutral,” he admitted. “She’s distracted by her fool brother and the advance of the Blight.”

            “Lady Cousland no doubt only cares about the succession being settled and dwarven troops marching to save Ferelden,” Harrowmount said with a certain amount of bluntness. “Whoever rules is immaterial to her.”

            Alistair nodded. “Aye. Her Hold traded with the Merchants’ Guild, surfacers one and all, and only now is she seeing the dwarven race as it ought to be.”

            “My kinsman Czibor is rather impressed with her,” Harrowmount continued, knowing that Alistair looked upon his arranged bride with affection, and she returned the feeling. “Did she mention…?”

            “Bhelen’s trick? Aye.” Alistair grimaced. “Cailan took it as standard and she seemed more annoyed at the quality of the forgeries, which is to say poor. My wife is a fine… what is the word?”

            “’Calligrapher’,” Harrowmount supplied helpfully. “She has a beautiful hand, even in dwarven runes. How many languages is she fluent in again?”

            “King’s Tongue, the Teangas Rúnda and Nua – the old languages of shaman and the Alamarri that are still used amongst the Avvar – Orlesian, Anders and Antivan are the ones she speaks well, while her Nevarran and Rivaini need work, and she has only a smattering of Qunlat, whatever _that_ is,” Alistair answered proudly. “As for written scripts, I don’t know beyond the common tongue, the old Teanga script, modern dwarven runes and enough elvhen to recognise the language.”

            Harrowmount whistled in awe. “Not even twenty and she can match our finest Shapers academically. Your Lady is very talented, Teyrn Alistair.”

            The praise to his wife puffed up the Avvar’s chest. Harrowmount disliked using false praise or having to cast about for something to compliment a potential ally’s spouse about. Thankfully, he didn’t have to pontificate about Lady Cousland’s beauty – an awkward proposition at best when she was too tall and thin with those overlarge eyes, like an elf but without the elf’s innate grace in being put together correctly as they should, though he would grant that her skin was almost acceptably pale. The woman _was_ a brilliant scholar and so he could be diplomatic without lying.

            “Aye, my kin have their virtues,” Alistair agreed with a smile. “Cailan is very charming and smarter than he looks.”

            Harrowmount would debate that on both matters but because he needed Alistair, he chose not to. His chosen fighters in the Proving tomorrow had been misled by Bhelen’s manipulations and because of the Wardens, he had to look like he had surfacer allies. If any surfacer was going to come close to a dwarven ally in his eyes, it would need to be an Avvar, who were long-time trading partners and therefore acceptable to the deshyr.

            “I hope he can see the flaws in Bhelen’s arguments…” He sighed. “You understand the connection between the Stone, the Ancestors and the dwarven traditions, Teyrn Alistair. Bhelen will see our long-standing agreements with people like the Avvar, who honour the Stone as Korth Mountain-Father, fall into ruin while chasing after groups like the Orlesians or even Rendon Howe. He looks for short-term gain at the expense of honour.”

            Alistair’s eyebrow rose. “I see. You want something from me.”

            Even a casteless rendered even more useless from moss wine could have seen that, but Harrowmount nodded as if applauding Alistair’s intelligence. He was competent – one didn’t become the temporary warleader of a fractious people like the Avvar just through combat skill alone – but he was no deshyr. Yet that honesty and integrity would serve Harrowmount if he could coax the man into alliance with him.

            “Bhelen deceived two of my warriors who were to stand in the Provings for House Harrowmount tomorrow,” he explained bluntly. “I must work on the assumption that means he could undermine anyone amongst my allies. But you and your Avvar… I need to show a united face to the Blight. I know what will happen if the darkspawn cover the surface and return here. I would like some of your people, if they are willing, to stand for me in the Provings. Champions, even surfacer ones, are permitted – and this event is being run by Bhelen reportedly in honour of Brytta Brosca, so if a Warden could join in, so much the better.”

            “Amund the Sky Watcher and Carver,” Alistair promptly answered. “Daveth won’t fight for you, Duncan mourns his wife, Cauthrien is topside watching over our army and Zevran is… _was_ … an assassin.”

            A priest of the Lady of the Skies? Harrowmount could work with that. “Will they fight?”

            “Amund will fight because I ask it and we need the Children of Korth against the Blight. Carver will fight both for glory and because he supports you.”

            Harrowmount could have smiled in relief but he kept his face grave. “Will Cailan and your wife object?”

            “My brother will be too busy doing whatever must be done to win Bhelen’s support topside,” Alistair answered bluntly. “I do know Bhelen Aeducan keeps the bargains he makes.”

            “True enough…” Harrowmount conceded.

            “And my wife will be in the Shaperate unless someone coaxes her out,” Alistair continued wryly. “She loves books as children love sweets.”

            Harrowmount laughed softly. “I have several volumes on the history of Orzammar. Dry reading, but an excellent way to understand our history. As for my champions, I will provide them with appropriate arms and armour if they need it.”

            “Better to enchant their weapons,” Alistair suggested. “They have fine steel already.”

            “Even better!” Cheaper too, though Harrowmount always kept his promises.

            “Then it is agreed,” Alistair confirmed with a brief smile. “I’ll tell the warriors where to go, perhaps go and watch myself.”

            “Wonderful!” Harrowmount shook the man’s hand, sealing the deal.

            Let the dwarves hew to traditional, time-tested allies like the Avvar. Harrowmount would protect Orzammar from Bhelen’s dangerous ideas, ideas that would turn the Stone to gravel and then grind what was left into Dust. For the first time since Endrin’s death, Harrowmount felt optimistic he could save Orzammar.

…

Leliana finished praying in the small Chantry within the Wardens’ compound, and rose to her feet once she heard the voices of Mara Cousland and the Theirin brothers. Her devotions eased the trouble in her heart and settled her mind enough to step into the bubbling cauldron that was dwarven politics.

            Brother Burkel, who served the Wardens after Brytta Brosca Conscripted him for preaching in the commons (and likely saved his life), entered and tended the purifying flame on the altar. “I believe the contenders for the throne approached the Theirin brothers and made agreements – Bhelen with Cailan, Alistair with Harrowmount – with Lady Mara remaining on the fence.”

            “Of course they did,” Leliana said calmly, looking at the golden urn which contained the Sacred Ashes of Andraste and the spirit of Havard, the Aegis of the Faith and Guardian of them. Her visions had become more reliable since she’d taken possession of it without the need for blinding to focus her inner sight.

            Burkel bowed to the Urn and exited the Chantry, allowing Leliana to adjust her armour. The dwarves were polite to her despite her very real interest in their culture – who was to say that the Stone wasn’t an aspect of the Maker that dwarves could understand? Andraste and the Maker were associated with the Light – hence the sun imagery of the Chantry – and she knew that despite His disappointment, the true god loved all of His creations as they were.

            She walked out to greet the trio, noting the slight tightening of Mara’s eyes at her appearance. The Cousland scion’s beliefs were remarkably similar to Leliana’s despite them never really speaking, but Cassandra Pentaghast’s attempt to recruit the clever child for the Seekers had made her wary of the Divine’s agents. Leliana wished she had been a Seeker then, because she would have gained the order a scholar without equal instead of the self-educated talented amateur Mara sadly was now. If Mara had been born in Orlais, she would have likely attended the University by now and become a Chantry scholar to equal Genitivi.

            “Whatever has been promised to you by the candidates, the answer to the succession crisis lies in the Deep Roads,” she announced.

            Mara sighed. “Then some of our Wardens will need to enter them to find Sigrun and her people,” she observed. “And Branka, if the woman’s still alive.”

            Leliana smiled. “There is a resource that we have which Sigrun didn’t: Oghren Kondrat, the abandoned husband of Paragon Branka. He knows the Paragon’s mind and ways, for all that he’s a hot-headed drunk forbidden to use weapons.”

            It was ‘we’ despite the Lady Cousland’s wariness. The Chantry had to help Ferelden defeat the Blight because if the Orlesian Empire was forced to intervene… It would end poorly and throw centuries of planning off track.

            “Good,” Alistair said, rubbing his jaw. “Cailan’s agreed to help Bhelen, I’m helping Harrowmount and Mara’s focusing on research.”

            Which Leliana already knew thanks to Burkel and a few Servant Caste converts. Andraste loved all and for the downtrodden of Orzammar, the promise of a better life was tempting. She was allowed to take confessions and coaxed useful information from them while providing council to her fellow Andrasteans. Dorothea had recruited her to the Seekers for this purpose, as secrets hid where the Seekers like Cassandra walked, so it fell to people like Leliana to ferret them out.

            “You know I was a bard in Orlais,” Leliana began carefully. All three were justifiably concerned about Orlesian intentions because of Celene’s clumsy handling of Cailan. She should have sent a hundred chevaliers and a thousand foot as a goodwill gesture instead of insisting on marriage first – enough to aid Ferelden but not enough to conquer it.

            “Is this the point where you offer your help?” Alistair, the smarter Theirin, asked warily. Years of Chantry persecuting the Avvar had left its mark in the warrior, for all his ancestor had brought the Alamarri to the Maker.

            “The Chantry has as much reason to aid you as the treaties,” Leliana reminded him. “The darkspawn, the first sin, threatens us all.”

            Mara’s gaze was shrewd. Of the trio, Lady Cousland was the most dangerous – not for her manipulative abilities, but for what she knew. Leliana wondered just how much the slender Cousland knew.

            “I would continue this appearance of being divided in public to approach both sides,” she advised. “That means Mara is the deciding vote.”

            Cailan, who at least had a basic understanding of court politics, nodded thoughtfully. “Agreed.”

            Alistair shrugged. He was no fool for all his barbarian background and if Leliana could make him see the practical benefits of the Chantry, the rest would follow. He could become the first King of the Avvar if he wanted to, a throwback to Calenhad and a redemption of Maferath.

            “It’s an appearance?” Mara asked coolly. Leliana watched her closely, reading the minute tics that even a Half-Tranquil’s face concealed, and saw only truth.

            “You know what I mean,” the bard told the scholar.

            “Of course,” Mara said neutrally. “I hope you meant what you said about aiding us against the Blight.”

            “I am not lying!” Leliana answered, offended Mara was implying otherwise.

            “I know. But how much aid would you give the Wardens?”

            “I fight alongside them.”

            “And that is all, when by the Treaty of Weisshaupt, we have the right to claim whatever resources we need from the Chantry?” Duncan’s flat, weary voice rasped behind the Seeker.

            “My job is to translate the treaties and the Wardens keep copies of their treaties in both Orzammar and Weisshaupt,” Mara continued calmly. “You are a Seeker, two steps below the Left Hand of the Divine and answerable only to the Lord Seeker. You can overrule the Grand Cleric and get the templars to fight alongside the army we are building to fight the darkspawn. The stockpiles of food can be released, Chantry fortresses prepared to protect civilians, and the mages given leave to serve as we need them.”

            Leliana crossed her arms defensively. “When I went to Ferelden, to find some peace within myself before the Blight began, I was commanded to save the Treaty of Weisshaupt for the most desperate circumstances.”

            “The Blight took Lothering according to Chasind refugees,” Duncan answered grimly. “If I had known-!”

            “Your wife would still be dead, Warden-Commander. Her Calling had come and she wanted to die with glory.” It hadn’t taken much to pry that detail out of Daveth, who liked to flirt with anything remotely attractive and female.

            “I could have had more Wardens,” the Warden-Commander said bitterly.

            “Blame the Grand Cleric, not me. It was her duty to decide when the treaty must be fulfilled. I… am a backup plan, in case Elemena can’t perform her duties.” Leliana glanced to Lady Cousland. “I wish you had brought this up with me first before telling the Wardens. As an affirmed Andrastean-“

            “The sword-oath comes before all other duties,” Mara interrupted coolly. “It is older than Andraste.”

            “No duty comes before the one that is owed to the Maker,” Leliana reminded her. “I complied with your request to withdraw all Chantry relics from the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Lady Cousland, in the interests of courtesy and an alliance against the darkspawn. I wish you had shared a similar respect for the situation I’m in.”

            “For someone who claims the Maker loves us all, you’re certainly doctrinaire,” Mara noted dryly. “I half-expect you to threaten me with excommunication the way Cassandra did.”

            Leliana winced. “Cassandra is… forceful. And the last person to send to a powerful noble looking to recruit a talented child for the Seekers. I would have pointed out the education you would have received. You could have become the equal – perhaps even the superior – of Brother Genitivi after attending the University of Orlais. But now it is too late.”

            “I believe in the Maker,” Mara answered slowly. “But I think the Chantry is far too political. Andraste dreamed of a world where everyone was free, but I see elves locked up in alienages when their culture predated humanity, the Qun slowly advancing from the north because their doctrine, for all its closemindedness, treats all as equal and with use, and the mages treated – at best – as a resource for the Chantry to control, much like lyrium. I know the dangers of magic, but one day the kettle on which the Chantry sits will explode and only the Maker knows then what will happen.”

            What stung was that Mara spoke things Leliana had thought herself. “You are correct, but I fail to see how not consulting me before telling the Wardens about the Treaty of Weisshaupt makes your point.”

            “That’s because the Chantry sits on its arse until disaster’s in its face and then screams ‘Save me, save me’,” Duncan said curtly. “I have a copy of the treaty, Seeker, and I will be making full use of the resources that the Chantry can provide in Ferelden. If you want to be useful, I need you to get the Orlesian Wardens here _without_ Imperial interference. Jader’s just over the border and my friend Riordan is the Senior Warden there.”

            “I can… do that,” Leliana agreed.

            “Good. I, Daveth and Jowan are going to the Deep Roads,” he replied curtly. “Riordan may have to take command if we don’t come back.”

            “Cauthrien, Carver and Zevran also have a copy of the treaty,” Mara continued calmly. “Do you know the Shaperate makes nine copies of _everything_ in addition to the Memories?”

            When cornered in the Game, there was only one thing you could do. Leliana bowed slightly to Mara, said “Well done, Lady Cousland” and went to pack her bag for the trip to Jader.

            Here was to hoping Cassandra didn’t gut her.


	22. Games Within Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for musings on sexual intercourse, violence and death. For the sake of the story, Amund (Sky Watcher) is a Spirit Warrior.

Alistair sat in the chair of honour reserved for surfacer guests as Carver (eager to prove himself better than his brother Garrett, who had taken to Avvar shaman-born ways like a duck to water) and Amund (eager to test himself against Orzammar’s best) walked into the battle circle. He wished Mara was here, to explain the thousand and five little different traditions they had, but instead the Master of the Provings sat next to him, a sight far less lovely than his lady.

            His lady. A simple thought and one that might earn the sharp side of Mara’s tongue if she found out about it, but one which sat snugly inside his heart next to the memory of his marriage to Eileen. Reserved and distant when she was acting as a Cousland, dogged and methodical in whatever she did – in and out of bed, a far cry from Eileen’s passionate enthusiasm but one which brought him no less pleasure – and far better suited to the games the Assembly tried to play than Cailan or himself. Her way wasn’t the subtle manipulations of the Ciriane or Anora’s reputed playing of the skittish Alamarri Bannorn, it was the way of knowledge, hoarding little bits and pieces of information until they became relevant and then sliding them home like the final piece in a shaman’s puzzle. Leliana, escorted to Jader by Zevran because no other Warden could be spared, had remarked that Lady Cousland would have made a very fine spymaster – and meant it as a compliment! Ciriane bards were a strange lot and one who worked for the Chantry was the strangest of all.

            But the Seeker had given them one vital piece of information, one that sent Duncan, Jowan and Daveth into the Deep Roads to find Sigrun and the other Wardens: Branka would play a part, either by her vote for a king or her death. Oghren Kondrat, a berserker forbidden to bear weapons after he killed a youth for mocking him about his wife up and leaving, joined them; Alistair supposed he would return a Warden for he had no other way of reclaiming his honour.

            Riddles within the story, a story within the riddles: it was like playing a shaman’s puzzle with three priestesses, a Ciriane and a demon! Alistair agreed with Harrowmount, which he did, while Cailan agreed with Bhelen, which _he_ did, and Mara called both would-be Kings a pair of idiots, which was correct. If the Wardens had been left to deal with this, only the gods know how it would have turned out!

            The first opponents, a brother and sister team, emerged from the other side. They were good, very good, but Carver proved that the templar’s Smite was useful against more than rogue shaman-born while Amund made use of his own spirit-given abilities. The duo were dragged off the sand unconscious, allowing the two fighting for Harrowmount to rest and have a drink of water.

            In the enemies arrayed against his two champions, Alistair saw the makeup of Bhelen’s allies: the traditionalist Silent Sisters, the more progressive Houses founded by Paragons within the past century or so and many of the lower Castes. But in those battles, Carver and Amund reigned supreme, two mighty warriors who showed the dwarves what the surfacers were capable of.

            When the final opponent was called, Alistair’s eyebrow shot up. “I thought Piotin loathed Bhelen?” he asked of the Proving Master.

            “He does,” answered a sweet, light voice from behind him; Alistair looked over to see Rica Aeducan take a seat, blithely ignoring the Proving Master (who was a member of the Shaperate taken from the Warrior Caste) as he glared at her. “Trian was his best friend as well as his commander. But above all things, Piotin is an Aeducan and will stand with his kin, even if it is Bhelen.”

            Alistair inclined his head to the dwarven woman, seeing much of the same strength that Brytta possessed beneath the soft white skin, painted amber eyes and silk-wrapped auburn hair. “Have you come to try and persuade me to ally with Bhelen as my brother does, Lady Aeducan?” he asked calmly.

            Her rose-painted lips curved slightly. “You call me ‘Lady Aeducan’ without a sneer or flattery in your tone, Teyrn Alistair.”

            The Avvar warrior shrugged. “You are Lady Aeducan, descended from Gherlen the Blood-Risen. I know it is the way of Korth’s children to measure descent through the parent who shares the child’s gender, but not all diamonds are like stars – some are red as blood and beauty - and even the Avvar know of how Gherlen’s heart was turned to red diamond when he returned to the Ancestors.”

            “A promise to the casteless when the shards of Gherlen’s Heart are gathered together, the Dust will be pounded to Stone again,” Rica murmured. “From mother to daughter since Brosca was denied her birthright on her father’s death, for the newly risen House Dace couldn’t abide the friendship between Paragon Gherlen and Paragon Dace.”

            “Aye, and to hear my lady tell it, your Ancestors held the pass which bears his name against one of hers, a charming sort named Hafter,” Alistair added. “He lost, was sent away like a whipped Ciriane dog, and lost the Teyrnship to his own son.”

            “That he did. Endrin’s already promised to Anwer Dace’s youngest granddaughter.” Rica smiled fondly, a mother thinking of her son. “He’s… a lot like Brytta.”

            “Not with her temper, I hope,” Alistair laughed.

            “No one could have Brytta’s temper.” Rica glanced at the Master of the Proving, who pointedly ignored her. “Do you know how my sister died? No one will tell me.”

            “Your sister perished, having slain an Ogre,” crooned Morrigan, who had snuck in somehow. “I knew her briefly, a rather more potent soul than the men who accompanied her. I think I would have liked to know her better.”

            “Thank you,” Rica said, voice soft. “Poor Duncan looks like he’s lost twenty years of his life and even Bhelen misses her.”

            “Only because she Conscripted where he told her to,” the Master of the Proving muttered.

            Mara had been frank about Brytta’s actions on Bhelen’s behalf, saying that it was frankly nepotism and technically a violation of Warden neutrality – but more blatant than the actions of the Wardens in many other countries. She also told Alistair that since the other option was assassination, Brytta saved several very talented warriors from death or the Legion of the Dead.

            “I suppose you believe she shouldn’t be a Paragon?” Alistair asked bluntly as the horns blew to announce the beginning of the fight.

            “I suppose if we have Paragons of wit and guile, poetry and knitting, we could have a Paragon of the Dust. Or the Grey, I suppose.” The Proving Master shook his head with a sigh. “Brytta entered the Provings often and won every time. The first time might have been deception – she fought as an Aeducan ally under a false name – but the Stone allowed her to rise triumphant and remain unbeaten for over ten years, against Warrior Castes who had been training all their lives. Not all of it was Warden strength, speed and stamina.”

            “That’s… not exactly an answer,” Alistair observed quietly.

            “It is,” Rica said softly. “The Proving Master believes that Brytta should be a Paragon.”

            “The surfacers name a dead woman as perfect and worship a god who abandoned them,” the Proving Master said dryly. “Our Ancestors aren’t perfect, but they have each improved dwarven life in some manner. Brytta’s tenure as Warden-Constable, the first ever named in Orzammar’s history, reduced casualties amongst the Warrior Castes by twenty percent and allowed us to push back the darkspawn to beyond Aeducan Thaig. Even casteless can become Paragons.”

            “ _My_ people don’t worship the dead woman,” Alistair said mildly. “ _She_ took the Alamarri from the true gods.”

            He turned his attention to the fight and watched the champions fight each other. Piotin’s second was already down and Carver’s hand was pressed against his side, but Piotin and Amund went against each other with massive hammers.

            “Why are you fighting for Harrowmount when Cailan supports Bhelen?” Rica asked suddenly.

            “Because Cailan is my brother but I am the Teyrn of the Avvar and Harrowmount has dealt with us fairly when we trade,” Alistair told her. “Bhelen has done nothing for our people.”

            Rica’s expression turned thoughtful. “Your wife doesn’t seem to like either Bhelen or Harrowmount?”

            “Mara keeps her own counsel. Remember, she cares for Ferelden and just Ferelden, though she tries to get everyone the best outcome they can,” Alistair pointed out. “I think she sees Howe and Fergus in your husband and Lord Harrowmount, and not even I know which one is which.”

            All the truth. Mara always said that in the Game, as the Ciriane called it, you should always speak truth so that when you lied, it would be believed because of a reputation for honesty.

            “If Branka returns and chooses Harrowmount…” Rica shook her head. “I would return to Dust Town if I thought it would win Bhelen the crown.”

            Truth in her eyes and voice. “And that would break Bhelen’s heart more than losing, I think,” Alistair told her quietly. “He loves you and not just for the son you’ve given him.”

            “I… thank you.” She sighed as the crowd roared and Alistair turned around to see Amund and Piotin picking themselves up from the dusty ground.

            The Proving Master leaned over and swore in dwarven. “A tie.”

            “Or the Stone telling Harrowmount to fight his own battles,” Morrigan noted thoughtfully.

            “Aye,” Alistair agreed. “His reaction to this should be… interesting.”

            He looked up at Morrigan. “What brings you here, Morrigan An Flemeth?”

            The witch’s mouth twitched. “It appears Teyrn Loghain survived Ostagar after all. He has come demanding to speak to Mara or Cailan.”

            Alistair rose to his feet, nodding absently to the Proving Master and Rica. “He’ll get me whether he likes it or not.”

…

Loghain had a new second, a woman named Aveline Vallen, and the dark-haired warrior was incandescent with rage. “If Cailan thinks he can hide behind you and Orzammar’s walls, he has another thing coming!” he roared.

            “Cailan is aiding the Wardens,” Alistair answered calmly. “As is Mara.”

            “Fergus Cousland declared himself King without calling a Landsmeet!”

            “He tried that trick here and Mara sent the errand boy running away.” Alistair folded his hands behind his back and met the general’s storm-hued eyes. “She’s… not happy.”

            “If it wasn’t for Cailan’s stupidity…” Loghain swore and pulled off his helmet, a rough grey iron affair, so that his black braids swung around a face that was slowly losing the red.

            “Cailan fully recognises his stupidity. He’s also given instructions that if he dies before the Landsmeet, any support he garners goes to Anora.”

            Loghain paused before sighing explosively. “Fergus Cousland is claiming he was acclaimed as King by his soldiers.”

            Alistair snorted. “I was acclaimed as an Alamarri Teyrn by the warriors of your people, but until I earned the right to be warleader of the Avvar, I didn’t call myself as such.”

            “ _You’re_ the one running the Avvar?” That protective hound look in his eyes returned and Alistair held up a hand reassuringly.

            “We will march with the Wardens. Mara’s the only one outside of a few Chantry scholars who can accurately translate the treaties, so that’s why she’s with the Wardens.” He smiled thinly. “She even found one where the Chantry is compelled to send templars and give them resources, then sent a Seeker off with one of our Wardens to bring the Orlesian Wardens – only them, mind you – to Orzammar.”

            Aveline and Loghain exchanged glances. “They won’t be the only ones,” the red-haired woman said quietly. “We… hopped over the border, so to speak, to Kirkwall because Rendon Howe has a son in the Free Marches.”

            “Nathaniel’s a fine man, the best of the Howes,” Loghain grated. “I managed to secure Denerim for Anora before I left. I didn’t want to leave Ferelden, but…”

            “If you’re bringing more Wardens, it was worth it,” Alistair said softly. “Fergus left the Wardens to die with you, Loghain, when he should have reinforced you. That is what has made Mara the angriest, I think, because of us all she knows what will happen as the Blight advances.”

            “They have,” rasped a soft voice as a tall, lean man in black, handsome but for a hooked nose and eyes the same blue-grey as Mara’s, as he entered into the small canvas tent where they met. “Sorry for being late, Loghain. I had to kill a couple of Father’s mercenaries. Apparently the Crow he hired to kill Mara didn’t work out so he’s reduced to hiring Carta scum.”

            Alistair smirked. “She stopped him and when he surrendered, gave him to the Wardens.”

            Nathaniel Howe smiled thinly. “Practical of her, but if what you’ve said about Fergus is true…”

            The son of Mara’s greatest enemy, her kinsman by the looks of it, sighed. “Mara will probably greet me with a knife to the belly.”

            “I don’t know. I _do_ know that she isn’t happy with Fergus’ stated intention of visiting whatever was done by your father to his son and wife on your sister and brother,” Alistair informed the man.

            “Maker’s breath, has Fergus Cousland gone mad?” Loghain asked of the air as Nate paled, a neat trick for a man who was already fair-skinned.

            “Mara says he’s become like Hafter Cousland, who was apparently one of those righteous lowlander bastards who pile up corpses like firewood,” Alistair said sombrely.

            “Grief can bring out the worst in a man,” Loghain observed flatly. “Now where is Cailan? I’m not going to kill him but by the Maker and Maric’s memory, I’ll kick his arse.”

            “You will do no such thing.” Alistair stepped up to stare the man in the face. “Half of what Cailan is, you and your daughter made him. You tried to make him our father when he is himself, and even Cauthrien has admitted that Anora clings to power like a babe to its mother’s teat. By some miracle, Cailan is willing to do what he can for Anora, and he vowed that if Fergus Cousland so much as touched her, he’d pike the man’s head himself, Landsmeet or not.”

            “Cailan needs to face the consequences of what he’s done,” Loghain growled. “He can start by explaining himself to me.”

            “So long as you allow him to speak, I can make it happen,” Alistair promised. “If you start laying into Mara for what’s happened, however, I will make you swallow your teeth so you have to chew your food just before you shit it out.”

            Loghain actually smiled as Nate, whose expression was troubled, managed a smirk before he stepped up, pulling off a golden signet ring.

            “Mara has as much right to this as I do. Tell her that she’s the rightful Arlessa of Amaranthine.” Howe’s voice was calm, almost too calm.

            “Fergus decided that Amaranthine was to be Mara’s dowry and Cailan confirmed it,” Alistair said carefully.

            “Mara’s grandmother and my grandfather were siblings. She has the right to Amaranthine more than you and fuck what Cailan thinks.” Nate’s expression was now the cold passiveness of a man preparing to kill. “I’m returning to Amaranthine, to get Delilah and Thom out and to Denerim.”

            “Nathaniel, shouldn’t you report to the Wardens here?” Loghain asked.

            “I need to get my family away from Fergus,” Nate said flatly. “They still tell stories about Hafter Cousland in Amaranthine and if Fergus is one of the Couslands with justice but no temperance or compassion…”

            “Go,” Alistair urged him. Kin was important. He only hoped Mara wouldn’t be angry.

            Howe nodded and left the tent immediately, making Loghain sigh.

            “Take me to Orzammar. I intend to have words with Cailan,” he commanded.

            Alistair sighed. Games within games within games…


	23. Decisions and Actions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for grief.

It took Mara a few moments for her to process what Alistair said, holding out the Tanist’s signet to Amaranthine, and in that time a storm of emotions built up behind her calm façade. He’d let Nate Howe leave without even seeing her, let her cousin escape before facing her fury and grief, let him dump the fucking burden of Amaranthine in her life when she juggled so many other duties. The Teyrn of the Avvar made an important decision without her and _that_ pissed her off more than Nate leaving.

            “What in the name of all that is _fucking_ holy under the sky possessed you to allow the heir to Amaranthine leave without at least consulting me?” she finally asked, voice colder than iron left out in a blizzard.

            Her husband looked confused as the newly resurrected Loghain grunted. “He’s a Warden, Mara. We found him recruiting Wardens in Kirkwall for the trip to Ferelden.”

            “I don’t fucking care if he was the Maker returned! Nate at least owed me the fucking duty of looking me in the face and seeing my grief!” she snarled.

            “Your brother means to slay his family horribly, if he hasn’t already,” Alistair answered, a little taken aback by the tone of her voice. “He is a Warden, Mara, one who had nothing to do with your family’s death. Why make him stay?”

            “Because I wanted one fucking Howe to know the depth of grief I hold, to see me rage. Is that so fucking much to ask?” Mara made a chopping motion with her right hand angrily. “You, a leader of a foreign people, also made a decision without consulting me, Alistair. You undermined the authority I possess now and threatened any I might hold, especially in the Arling of Amaranthine, in the future.”

            “Were you going to kill Nate?” Loghain asked, interjecting where it was least wise for him to do so.

            “Of course fucking not. My name isn’t Rendon fucking Howe,” Mara snapped in reply. “Or Fergus, for that matter. But… Ah!”

            Her husband looked at her with a hurt, bewildered expression. He had no idea what he’d done, no doubt letting Nate go in a gesture of sympathy and perhaps to spare Mara pain. But in one action, he’d established himself as the maker of decisions for them both, and that would resound with Nate and others.

            “I didn’t want you to be hurt,” Alistair finally whispered.

            “Pain is part of life,” she retorted. “I. Am. Not. A. Fucking. Helpless. Damsel!”

            She slapped the table to emphasis each word. “Yes, you and Cailan and nine-tenths of the fucking army can outfight me. But I escaped Highever on my fucking own and travelled through hostile territory to Ostagar. I can read, speak and write more languages than you know exist. I can recite the lineages of five kingdoms’ worth of nobles, including Orzammar, back to the time of Kordilius Drakon. My own lineage extends back to the Divine Age and every Cousland, even the worst ones, has claimed justice with their own hands, justice which is bred into me, blood and bone. Nate did me no wrong, personally, but as a Howe he owed me the fucking respect to stand before me and let me rage. You took that from me and made me look like a helpless girl in the process, Alistair.”

            “You’re certainly throwing a tantrum now,” her husband snapped, anger overcoming the hurt. “You can’t make a decision, instead you read and ponder until the moment to act passes. If I must act to see something done, then I’ll do it and fuck your Cousland pride.”

            Mara’s fists clenched as all the pain and grief of the past three months rose within. “Then it will be the only thing you’ll be fucking for a long time, Alistair, because if you try to enter my bed I will leave you bleeding and singing like a Chantry choirboy.”

            She spun around, shoved her way past a stunned Loghain, and stormed out of the room. Fuck the Theirins and their high-handed certainty they knew what was best for everyone, acting without advice and causing catastrophe when it blew up in their faces. Mara Cousland had a duty to fulfil and she wasn’t going to waste time with their problems when they wouldn’t help with hers. Tell her she sat on her arse and avoided making decisions? Well she was going to act now and to the Void with what those two overgrown man-children thought.

…

“Hello, little one.”

            Normally, the rough, slightly Orlesian-accented voice would have produced a smile and hug for ‘Uncle Riordan’ but the pale, dark-haired Warden with a similar hairstyle to Nate’s was a little too much like a Howe in appearance for Mara to be more than barely polite. The bastard of a bastard Cousland, he was still family in their eyes and if not for his choice to become a Warden in the wake of prejudice towards half-Orlesians after Maric freed Ferelden, he would have been her father’s right-hand man. In fact, a song called ‘Bound for Jader’s Grey’ was about the Fereldanais, rejected by both kingdoms, who had nowhere else to go…

            She took her head and wrestled her anger at Alistair, which hadn’t been improved by him trying to speak to her twice and sending Cailan once on his behalf, into submission like a baker punching leavened dough. If Riordan was here, it meant that Zevran and Leliana had completed their mission, and she owed her kinsman a civil attitude.

            “Who did it and how badly do you want them hurt?” Riordan asked quietly, voice gravelly with the edge of anger and touched with genuine concern.

            Mara, for the first time since Lothering, burst into tears and related everything that happened, sparing no details. Riordan had seen the darkspawn do worse and he was her kinsman besides, so he was owed the truth.

            Every time she found a man she liked as a person, slowly falling in love, something came and destroyed her happiness. Rory had shied away from her as the Teyrn’s daughter, though Bryce Cousland would have given him a chance to prove himself; Dairren, dead and lost, barely mourned after being killed in Highever; and now Alistair, who failed to understand what his actions had done. If he’d just said sorry, she could have forgiven him. But Avvar – and Theirins – didn’t do sorry. And Couslands always enacted justice, even when it cost them dearly.

            Eyes burning but heart empty and hollow like a fever had broken, she found enough courtesy to pour Riordan some wine, a better vintage than either Theirin drank. She then delivered a report on the Wardens’ activities and the political situation in Orzammar with a spare, soft voice, pausing to drink some wine herself.

            “I’m glad Nate’s a Warden, because I would have Conscripted him myself, to make the succession in Amaranthine easier,” Riordan said softly, swirling the rich red wine in the plain pewter goblet stamped with a griffin. “As for Fergus… Little one, you may need to stop him before he completely destroys the Couslands’ reputation. You never heard it, but many of the Highever banns would have voted for you over Fergus when your father died if they thought you’d agree to it, because they knew that beneath the cold blue eyes and still face lay a Teyrna who would fight to the death for them, a Teyrna who kept her promises and one who wasn’t too proud to associate with commoners, one who would deliver justice equally, fairly and with compassion, which is a different thing to temperance and mercy.”

            A few more tears seeped out at the man’s terse words of praise. Riordan, for all his blood, was common as good sword steel and just as sharp. When he joined the Grey, Highever lost a great knight and the Couslands one of their best kinsmen.

            “I’m sworn on sword-oath to aid the Wardens in getting their treaties before anything else,” she observed softly.

            “Aye, and a fine oath too. The nobility in both Ferelden and Orlais, and now Orzammar, play politics as the south burns beneath the darkspawn.” Riordan grimaced in disgust, drinking some more wine. “But there are many ways to interpret an oath, little one, and with Celene refusing to let the Wardens leave Orlais without chevaliers, we need to retake Highever and perhaps Amaranthine to allow the Free Marches ones entrance.”

            “Which would deliver two ports back to the Couslands,” Mara said softly.

            “Aye. While you play politics in Orzammar, there’s an army getting fat and lazy topside, while Fergus and Rendon tear up the north in a civil war.” Riordan’s eyes, the pale blue-grey that Mara and Nate possessed, were steady as the edge of a sword laid against the jugular.

            “The Avvar won’t follow me,” she said quietly. “And many of the Fereldans will stay with Alistair and Cailan.”

            “You are the granddaughter of the Storm Giant of the Storm Coast, cousin to the Bann of Waking Sea, rightful Arlessa of Amaranthine as Nate is removed from the succession and no Amaranthine Bann will follow Delilah or Thomas, second in line to Highever and, depending on how we view the succession, second or third in line to the Mabari Throne.” Riordan’s voice was kind but firm as he listed the connections Mara could claim in her own right.

            “I can’t fight Fergus,” she breathed. “He’s my _brother._ ”

            “He is a tyrant,” Riordan said bluntly. “And he lost Highever to mercenaries Rendon Howe hired, that is why he’s besieging Amaranthine.”

            Mara swore viciously. “Highever, even destroyed by Howe’s scum, is strongest from the landward side. We’d need to attack from the sea…”

            “Indeed.” Riordan’s smile was grim. “And the sea’s in your blood.”

            She raised her eyes to her kinsman. “I just can’t up and leave, even if you claim it will serve the Wardens, Uncle Riordan.”

            “Give me a look at the treaties.” He looked through them, examining each seal thoughtfully. “Highever, Redcliffe and Kinloch Hold are all within your reach. Eamon’s illness is now common news topside; we need to find out what’s wrong with him and either cure it or make certain Teagan Guerrin inherits. There’s trouble at Kinloch Hold too, I believe.”

            “Lovely,” Mara said dryly.

            Riordan nodded, wryly smirking for a moment. “I can’t go with you. I’m Orlesian, at least in Fereldan eyes, despite my Cousland blood. That leaves out Leliana too, which is a good thing because I would rather keep an eye on her.”

            Mara nodded. It was time she stopped relying on others to save her. And perhaps with time apart, Alistair would learn to understand what he’d done, and she could pick her way through the tangle of feelings he produced. “You trust Zevran?”

            “He has embraced the life of a Warden in his own way,” Riordan said with a chuckle. “He also feels he owes you one. Take him, for he has no problem with doing what must be done to gain the treaties, and having a Warden at your side will fulfil the terms of your oath.”

            “And being Antivan, it might be assumed he’s an ally sent by Oriana’s family,” Mara agreed quietly. She was still wary as he’d tried to kill or take her for Rendon Howe, but he was more acceptable than the Orlesian Leliana.

            “Exactly.”

            Mara crossed her arms. “If Wynne and Brother Genitivi will join me, I’ll have their advice. Morrigan seems attracted to Zevran and I don’t think she’s happy about being underground. Having a daughter of Flemeth as an ally, if she wants to come, will be a hell of a boost to both my reputation _and_ firepower. However, I need warriors, people who know war.”

            “I’ll come. As will my men.”

            Loghain’s harsh voice startled the pair of them, wine slopping out of Mara’s cup as she jumped. She didn’t know he’d been allowed into the Wardens’ compound or that he had men left from Ostagar.

            “Why?” Mara asked cautiously.

            “Because I can’t sit on my arse and watch the Theirins make idiots of themselves.” Loghain’s tone grated. “I thought better of Alistair but he’s told me that I’m under some bloody Avvar. I stand for Ferelden and if I must take orders, I’ll take them from a Fereldan.”

            “Alistair’s not stupid,” Mara automatically protested. “He… just needs to learn when not to undermine me, even with the best of intentions. And… I need to take command. At the very least, I’m the Tanist to Amaranthine.”

            “Indeed.” Loghain’s scarred face gentled a little. “You remind me a little of Anora when she was younger. Speaking of which-“

            “I won’t stop her from making her case for becoming Queen at the Landsmeet,” Mara promised, interrupting the man. “That’s assuming she doesn’t decide to reconcile with Cailan and start working in partnership with him, not treating him as an annoying necessity.”

            “Not bloody likely. She was furious.” Loghain’s eyes were hard again.

            “Maybe, maybe not. I think Cailan’s genuinely remorseful and that you hold some of the blame for making him what he is.” Mara met the Teyrn’s eyes easily. “Maric, Anora and his own faults are also part of the mix.”

            “Perhaps,” he granted. “But I want to be topside fighting for Ferelden, not sitting down here playing dwarven politics. If that means serving as your warleader, then I’ll do so.”

            Mara knew Loghain’s help would come with hooks and prices, but so did any sort of alliance in the Landsmeet. He was a hero who knew more of war than anyone else in Ferelden’s army, most especially herself.

            She nodded and offered her hand. He took it as Riordan watched approvingly. It was time to act, time to make a decision and stick to it. It was time to live up to her Cousland ancestry.


	24. Plans and Victories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for discussion of death, grief and autistic experiences. There’s going to be a timeskip to speed the plot along. Also totally stealing Battleship for Thedas. Fidchell was an old strategic game from Ireland much like chess.

Loghain had never much taken notice of the Mac Eanraig clan, be they from the Storm Coast or the Waking Sea, but he realised that most of them were fine-boned, almost like Orlesians, with a decided lack of height. Fearchar Mac Eanraig, Mara’s grandfather, had taken after his Wulffe ancestry by standing head-and-shoulders above the coastal Fereldans and thereby earning his name Storm Giant. Fearchar’s son Murtagh was stocky from the Alamarri blood but only reached Loghain’s chin in height; on the sea, however, he was the Teyrn’s equal when it came to tactics.

            Mara had inherited the Mac Eanraig ash-blonde hair, bordering almost on grey, and the overlarge eyes, though the colour of them was the blue-grey peculiar to the Howes and a couple Couslands. Loghain had been stunned to discover Riordan was a Cousland bastard, descended from a chevalier and Ardal Cousland’s daughter Muirne, before becoming a Warden. He’d given good advice too, though the Orlesian accent made the Teyrn wary. But it was either stay in Orzammar and rant at Cailan or go topside and do _something_ , even if it meant following a woman whose brother was a rebel.

            “Why didn’t you answer Fergus’ call?” Mara asked of her uncle, who lounged comfortably on a throne carved from twisted driftwood polished with beeswax, almost the same colour as the hair of every Mac Eanraig in the basalt fortress, hidden in the nooks and crannies of the Storm Coast. Loghain had been blindfolded when brought here, a standard procedure for one not of the blood as even under Maric’s rule, the Mac Eanraigs continued their privateering and smuggling ways.

            “Why aren’t you by your brother’s or husband’s side?” Murtagh countered calmly, keen-eyed and canny as an old scarred wolf. Loghain saw much in the man to approve of as a Fereldan.

            “Because Fergus is acting like Hafter Cousland reborn and Alistair needs to learn how not to undermine me,” Mara responded. She’d been frank about everything that happened, Loghain watching the flicker of emotion on Murtagh’s battered face like a storm crossing the sky. “And… I need to learn how to stand for myself and my people, on my own.”

            “Only a fool stands on their own when there’s allies about,” Murtagh drawled, large knob-knuckled hand resting on the throne’s arm. Loghain saw arthritis there; men on the sea aged quicker than most.

            “I don’t see the Mac Eanraigs of Storm and Sea standing with anyone,” Mara retorted. “The Blight isn’t something that you can hide from, not like the Orlesians or the Nevarrans or the Kirkwallers.”

            “We’ve seen signs of the darkspawn, more so than usual, in the caves about here,” Murtagh agreed, expression turning grim. “The children, elders and pregnant women are with Alfstanna at Waking Sea, with men to make sure they don’t fall into the hands of the Blight, one way or another.”

            “That’s… a wiser idea than you realise,” Mara answered softly, face paling. “Darkspawn reproduce and… it’s not pretty.”

             She then proceeded to explain what a ‘Broodmother’ was and Loghain wasn’t the only one who vomited. How the girl could remain stone-faced and deliver such horrific information was beyond the Teyrn, though he admired the steel in her spine for doing so.

            Judging by the slightly ashen hue of Zevran’s golden-brown face, he was unaware of what a Broodmother was, being new to the order. The Antivan had been dispatched by Riordan because of his skills as a Crow, not because of his knowledge of darkspawn.

            “According to the Warden Memories, which Jowan was kind enough to access for me, women of childbearing age who are fertile are the most vulnerable,” Mara finished calmly. “So keep the young women on the boats because darkspawn can’t swim.”

            “That will go for you too,” Murtagh added pointedly.

            “In the Storm Coast, aye,” Mara agreed. “Not so many caves in Highever and Father had those blocked up once we knew of the Blight.”

            “At your mother’s advice, no doubt,” her uncle observed with a shaky grin. “Bryce always missed the subtleties.”

            “He got them better than Half-Tranquil me,” Mara said with a rueful twist to her lips and a hint of sorrow in her voice.

            Murtagh nodded, suddenly rising to his feet. “You play Battleship?”

            “Of course. I wouldn’t dare call myself the Seawolf’s daughter if I couldn’t,” Mara responded wryly.

            Loghain watched in some confusion as a board was brought in, studded with holes and divided in two by a removable cloth screen, and a cloth bag full of carved ships with pegs in their bottom produced from the side of the throne. Mara took a seat and her uncle the other, on either side of the board, and Loghain watched them set up the ships as they saw fit.

            Wynne, who apparently knew of the game, took pity on the Teyrn and leaned over to whisper an explanation. “Battleship is a game they play on the Storm Coast,” she murmured. “You saw the narrow strait between the Storm Coast and Waking Sea? The Mac Eanraigs put catapults in the middle island and can decimate a ship on either side. Mara and Murtagh must name a hole and if it has a ship in it, depending on the size, it will either be hit or sink immediately.”

            “And whoever has ships left is the winner,” Loghain finished, finally understanding what they were about. “I assume this is a test of Lady Cousland’s strategic ability, of which she claims to have little.”

            “The Mac Eanraigs are notorious for their inability to command ground forces any larger than a raiding party,” Wynne observed wryly. “But Eleanor, the Seawolf, had the third highest bounty behind you and Maric for a reason – she was sinking Orlesian ships by the dozen during the war. Only her decision to settle down and have children with Bryce stopped her from becoming Ferelden’s Admiral.”

            Loghain suddenly recalled where he knew the name Seawolf from and found himself blushing. It was… a bawdy tune. Fitting it to the prim and proper Eleanor Cousland…

            The first few calls were tentatively, testing shots, and it was Murtagh who got the first hit, a little skiff that Mara jabbed a small red twig into to symbolise it being sunk. Loghain looked over the board and saw that Murtagh had clustered his main force together, no doubt some classic naval manoeuvre designed to punch through a force holding a small narrow place like the coast between Storm and Sea, while Mara had chosen to scatter the lighter ships across the board with the heaviest ships at the four points of a diamond – no centre to protect, but a thin wall to strike through.

            Loghain, while no sailor, imagined the scenario suddenly – Murtagh’s ships would punch through the side of Mara’s formation easily but would be surrounded, catapults raining down on the heavy galleys from the sides of the cliffs. The uncle had chosen an offensive tactic while the niece used a defensive tactic.

            They called shots, sinking each other’s ships, and Murtagh was the first to lose a galley. On the sea, the ships would be moving, taking advantages of weaknesses in the formation – on the board, they were static, trapped in a narrow area. Loghain instinctively realised that this was how naval warfare was fought on the Waking Sea and that the Mac Eanraigs were masters of it.

            Halfway through the game, Loghain knew who would win. Mara’s first shots had been testing ones, to determine the outside perimeters of Murtagh’s force – she was imagining her ships boxing him in for all they were static on the board – and now she was closing in. Judging by the narrowing of his eyes, the Bann of the Storm Coast knew it too.

            He fought hard, taking out all of Mara’s skiffs and two of her galleys, but the Lady Cousland’s eye for pattern and flawless memory took their toll. A single solitary skiff remained, no doubt trapped by the wreckage of its allies, and then was sunk by a final call delivered in a triumphant voice by Mara.

            Murtagh took away the screen and swore when he realised that Mara still had two galleys and two large curraghs, enough to hold the straits. Mara grinned triumphantly, actually looking like the eighteen year old that she was.

            “If we combined Battleship with fidchell – the old style, not the chess one – we could simulate a dynamic naval battlefield,” she mused thoughtfully. “Battleship’s too static and the ships are always moving about in a sea battle.”

            Loghain grinned. That would be an interesting game to play.

            “The Maker frowns upon those who gloat,” Murtagh said dryly, though there was an amused twitch to his lips. “Your mother would be proud of you, lass.”

            Mara’s smile turned bittersweet as she hung her head. “I was always lousy at the etiquette stuff. Never made sense to me. But knowledge… I can do that.”

            Murtagh nodded. “Aye. Not the first Half-Tranquil to pop up in our line, though it’s more the Waking Sea lot – look at Irminric. Handed the bannorn over to Alfstanna and became a templar because he couldn’t handle the Landsmeet.”

            “I’m none too fond of crowds myself. It’s because everything gets… overstimulated. Too many sights, sounded, smells…” Mara shuddered. “Battle’s the same. But at least there’s pockets of calm in a battle, aye?”

            Murtagh nodded understandingly. “Aye. So, what’s your plan for taking Highever? I assume you have one.”

            Mara inclined her head. “Teyrn Loghain and I have worked out a tentative plan.”

            “Huh, thought he was familiar.” Murtagh smiled apologetically. “Sorry, used to that armour you wear.”

            “The darkspawn were targeting me. A Warden told me that they learn everything a ghoul knows and have a hive mind which remembers everything. Since I lost the armour, they don’t recognise me.”

            “Good. Because that shit would sink you on a curragh sooner than you think.” The Bann of the Storm Coast gestured to one of the Mac Eanraig cousins, who brought over a rough-drawn map. Loghain sighed at the poor quality, but knew he could work with it. “I assume you’re handling the landward side?”

            “Yes.”

            All three leaned over the map as the cousin who brought it went to fetch mead, bread and cheese. It was going to be a long planning session.

…

Cailan knocked on the door to his brother’s room. Since Mara had taken off with Loghain, Wynne, Genitivi, Zevran and Morrigan to pursue the Kinloch Hold and Redcliffe treaties, the Avvar warrior had been grim and cold, frustrated with the dwarves and their continuing deadlock. The King of Ferelden, who damned well knew why Mara had blown up – and rightfully so – stepped carefully around him.

            Alistair opened the door, hair tousled from sleep. “What?” he asked acidly. His little brother didn’t wake up well.

            “The Wardens are back with a crown for the King.”

            “Shame there’s no King to hand it to,” Alistair muttered, grabbing his red-lion fur cloak.

            “Perhaps Branka named one.” Cailan shrugged his wide shoulders. “At least, if she has. If she’s left the choice to the Wardens, then they will still say she chose the King. Duncan’s surprisingly diplomatic.”

            “I get it, Cailan!” Alistair retorted, hands tightening on his cloak, knuckles white. “I just wish Mara had explained it to me instead of yelling and running off!”

            Cailan was rather relieved she took off, because Loghain went with her, and the Teyrn’s livid lecture was an experience Cailan had no wish to repeat. And apparently he was behaving because Alistair asked him to.

            “Well, at least she’s hurrying things up with the treaties,” Cailan pointed out. “Really, she was the superfluous one here. If she can find out what’s happening with Uncle Eamon and Kinloch Hold…”

            “I. Get. It.” Alistair’s tone was flat. “Now if you could explain to my Thanes, I’d be grateful.”

            “I might at that.” The Avvar had taken Mara’s leaving as an abandonment of Alistair and were pushing the Teyrn to declare the marriage over and take a proper bride so he could focus on the Blight. Only the bonds Cailan had built with Svarah, who understood practical politics, and the treaties kept the clans here and ready to fight for Ferelden.

            And even Svarah thought that they should divorce. “Two Thanes can’t live in the same Hold,” she said sadly.

            But Alistair had gone and fallen in love with Mara and though he had trouble reading her, Cailan rather thought the Lady Cousland returned the feeling. Which was why Alistair’s actions, which made sense to an Avvar protecting his wife, had hurt the woman so badly. Mara was a Cousland to the toes and with that came a great sense of pride. Being undermined had stung that pride and driven her back to the surface. Cailan could only hope it didn’t end in disaster because for all of her knowledge, Mara was sheltered and inexperienced.

            Hopefully Loghain’s own pride and anger wouldn’t stop him from keeping her out of trouble.

            They found the Wardens, freshly bathed and devouring a month’s worth of food, in the dining room. The crown, an ugly thing of gold and gems, was dumped unceremoniously on the floor on somebody’s cloak as Duncan reported to Riordan tersely.

            Cailan snagged a heel of bread just before Daveth could take it, drawing the half-Chasind’s attention. “Tell me what happened and I’ll let you have this,” he said, holding the bit of bread like it was a sacred object that Daveth was trying to protect.

            “Pretty much we traipsed halfway to fucking Nevarra, it feels like, and Branka had followed Caridin’s footsteps to find the forge where he made golems,” Daveth answered, stuffing a whole pickle in his mouth. “Turns out Sereda Aeducan survived her exile to the Deep Roads, snuck back in and joined the Carta, so she sent legbreakers to Caridin’s Cross to make sure we don’t get back. They didn’t do much chop against us, not after Jowan squished them with a twist of his hand, and Oghren was pissed about it. We went to Ortan Thaig, found a whole bunch of shit that’ll make Milady Mara and the Shaperate happy, and tracked Branka to Bownammar where the Legion of the Dead hangs out. Turns out Sigrun and her people were there and killed themselves trying to take out the archdemon, which laughed and went on its way. Fucking ugly critter it is and when I touched its mind…”

            The half-Chasind shuddered. “We’re in a Blight for real. Got Legionnaires who’ll come topside and vouch for us if the Landsmeet wants to be nob wankers. Fought our way through Bownammar, reached the Anvil of the Void – found out that fucking Branka had sacrificed her whole fucking House to get through Caridin’s traps and let one become a Broodmother so’s she could have more darkspawn to get through them – and discovered that Caridin was a golem and he’s like ‘Nah, no Anvil of the Void ‘cause asshole nobs use their political enemies to make golems’.”

            Cailan echoed Daveth’s shudder. Blessed Andraste and the Maker, Branka was mad, evil or both.

            “Duncan managed to sweet-talk the pair of them. Invoked the treaties, said that the Wardens were taking over the Anvil, Conscripted Branka then and there, and told Caridin that only volunteers and Wardens who wanted to fight darkspawn forever would become golems, and all of them would be like Shale in Honnleath. Turned out she was the only female Warrior Caste to volunteer ‘cause she and Caridin were buddies, yeah?” Daveth swallowed his ale. “So’s Branka wasn’t happy, Caridin wasn’t happy, but they couldn’t argue with the treaties. Branka made the crown, telling us she didn’t give a fuck which dancing nug got the throne, underwent the Joining… and fucking croaked. Oghren did the Joining and didn’t even fall on his arse like the rest of us do.”

            “Impressive,” Cailan murmured, looking at the dwarf who was drinking enough ale to fill the Waking Sea.

            “Yeah. Caridin asked us again to destroy the Anvil but… yeah, we couldn’t. Poor old golem bastard.” Daveth shook his head with a sigh. “He agreed to hang around to teach a Warden-Smith – I was thinking of Dagna who wants to study magic – and then was gonna jump in lava. We need them golems. Didn’t think Duncan was that much of a sweet-talker, honestly. Maybe seeing that archdemon made him realise he’s gonna need to be in for the long haul.”

            “I suppose if any side needs to have indestructible warriors of steel and stone, it should be the Wardens,” Cailan agreed quietly.

            “Exactly.” Daveth drained his mead cup dry. “So’s, what happened here?”

            Cailan related the events that happened after the Wardens left, Daveth’s gaze turning thoughtful. He was a huge admirer of Mara, who stopped him from getting hung. Finally, the Warden sighed.

            “Can’t fault Milady Mara for being pissed but she shoulda let her temper cool first and explained to Alistair before going,” he finally said. “Avvar gonna see her as an oathbreaker.”

            “Some do, though Svarah understands – and she still feels that Mara and Alistair should divorce, because ‘two Thanes can’t live in one Hold’,” Cailan agreed.

            “Yup.” Daveth poured himself some more mead. “Still, if she got Zev, maybe she can end this fucking civil war. Ain’t happy about Nate Howe fucking off without at least reporting to us, but guess he’s worried about Fergus Cousland. So, who do you reckon should be King?”

            Cailan sighed. “Bhelen. He’s no worse than Anora and Orzammar needs to change.”

            “Harrowmount has more honour,” Alistair shot back from across the table.

            “Great, so neither of you have no idea.” Daveth shook his head in disgust. “Fuck it, might as do a heads or tails.”

            The half-Chasind got a coin and flipped it. It landed on tails. “Harrowmount it is then,” he muttered before yelling, “Hey Duncan, Branka made Harrowmount King.”

            “What about Rica?” the half-Rivaini asked. “I owe it to Brytta to protect her sister.”

            “If Harrowmount threatens her, she can go topside with us.”

            “No.” Duncan’s jaw set firmly and the man showed more life than he had since Brytta died.

            “Well, the Dumbasses Theirin haven’t decided who should be King, what are we gonna do?” Daveth asked. Cailan thought the nickname was a little insulting, personally, because Alistair hadn’t done anything stupid yet.

            “Jowan, Oghren?” Duncan asked, looking at the two other Wardens. Carver and Cauthrien were topside with the army.

            “Bhelen’s made noises about inviting mages to live in Orzammar, to help the dwarves reclaim their thaigs,” Jowan said quietly. “Duncan, the Circle is unnecessary. Look at how the Avvar shamans live and they’re not abominations!”

            “One deep lord’s the same as another,” Oghren grunted. “But… yeah. At least Bhelen’s honest about being a nug’s ass.”

            “Well, Bhelen as King works for me. Just wanted to make sure we were all agreeing and if not, go to random chance.” Daveth shrugged nonchalantly. “Besides, reckon Brytta will become a Paragon this way.”

            “That’s a big part of why I support Bhelen,” Duncan admitted bluntly.

            Alistair didn’t look impressed but said nothing. His brother tended to be ruled by honour a bit more than a monarch should but had least learned when he shouldn’t get involved in other people’s business.

            “Then we’ll go to tomorrow’s Assembly meeting and make the announcement,” Cailan said with a slight smile. Bhelen’s promised trade concessions and discounted mercenaries were going to be useful in both ending the civil war and the Blight.

            He looked to the stone. At least he’d seen what happened when a Landsmeet ran wild. A lot of lessons came from this place and he didn’t regret what happened here, one bit.

            But when he went to the surface, the fun would really start. Maker have mercy on them all.


	25. Realpolitik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for suicide.

In the deliverance of Alistair’s news, Pyral Harrowmount aged a decade, tears glittering in his eyes. “I am a dead man,” the deshyr stated simply. “Bhelen will call for my execution on the morrow.”

            “Of course he will. Kings show no mercy or so I am told,” Alistair observed with bitter sympathy for the honourable man who contested for the Throne of Orzammar because his dead friend asked it of him. “Foreign powers aren’t supposed to intervene, even with the best of intentions, yet the Wardens decided that Bhelen will be King for Branka didn’t care and Caridin is bound to the Anvil of the Void.”

            “Carver or Cauthrien should have gone with them. Or was their support a sham?”

            “Their support is sincere. Neither was happy about the decision reached without their input. Riordan stayed out of it for the sake of neutrality. He’s a Cousland like Mara.” Cailan had told him that letting Nate Howe go without making him see Mara had undermined her authority as an Arlessa’s heir… yet he had blatantly campaigned for Bhelen to become King and now succeeded.

            Harrowmount turned from him and rested his head on the stone wall. “Endrin, my old friend, I have failed you.” Still-broad shoulders sagged a little from grief and despair, a feeling Alistair knew well.

            “I’m sorry.” An inadequate phrase but all Alistair could offer.

            “Don’t be. You kept every one of your promises. I just wish I could return the favour.” The deshyr straightened, Stone stiffening his spine again. “At least I won’t be sent to the golems as the King who reigned during Caridin’s time did with his enemies. And I have warning to settle my affairs.”

            “Will Bhelen avenge himself upon your kin?” Alistair asked carefully. “Can you flee to… where is it? Kal-Sharok?”

            He knew there was another dwarven city out there.

            “Kal-Sharok won’t accept outsiders, especially the second of King Endrin Aeducan, who tried to command their loyalty.” Harrowmount smiled dourly. “I will warn my family so they can stay or flee as they choose. Though the surface is left to them.”

            “The Children of Korth are welcome in the Frostbacks,” Alistair told him sincerely.

            “That is generous of you, Teyrn, but won’t your brother have a problem with that?”

            Alistair smiled thinly. “My brother does not rule the Avvar as I don’t rule the Alamarri.”

            “A point well-taken.” Harrowmount found it in him to smile. “You are a good man who deserves a better brother and wife.”

            His mention of Mara stung. The Thanes were already hinting that he should divorce her – technically, never having knotted the rope, it would be no divorce and he’d owe her no weregild – and even Svarah, who claimed to understand why Mara had been so angry, added that two Thanes couldn’t live in the same Hold. Why couldn’t have Mara understood that Nate had to hurry and save his family before her brother killed them? Nate did her no wrong and at worse, the Warden should have to pay weregild.

            He could understand holding a grudge but why did Nate have to see her angry for it to be better?

            Harrowmount cleared his throat and Alistair flushed. This man faced a no doubt painful execution and Alistair was focused on his marital problems.

            “Tell your family and then fall on your sword at the Assembly meeting,” he suggested. “Don’t give Bhelen the satisfaction of killing you.”

            Better to die than be killed.

            “That… is a good idea.” Harrowmount’s shoulders straightened. “I don’t suppose the Wardens would listen to you? ‘Hope isn’t gone until the axe falls’, as the old proverb goes.”

            Alistair snorted quietly. “The Wardens won’t listen to me. Of course, they’ll claim it was Branka’s decision Bhelen be King.”

            “Practical politics,” Harrowmount said quietly. “As tempting as it is to tell the Assembly that before I die, Orzammar needs to be united like nothing else because of the Blight. I will die as a Noble Caste should, with my head held high and honour preserved.”

            Alistair privately thought that Orzammar deserved everything they got if they agreed to follow Bhelen once he was announced as King. But he wouldn’t dishonour Harrowmount like that.

            “May the Stone receive you when you fall,” he said instead.

            “Thank you, Teyrn. I hope your people come through this Blight.” Harrowmount turned from Alistair. “If you’ll excuse me, I should prepare for the end.”

            Alistair left, tasting the bitterness of regret and mourning a man he’d come to respect.

…

Bhelen, wearing the Paragon-forged crown shaped in the sacred angles of dwarven architecture, looked down at Harrowmount’s cooling corpse and then up at Alistair. “You told him.”

            It was no question but Alistair chose to answer it. “Aye. Better to die than be killed.”

            Bhelen nodded. “That… was wise. And as he saved me the trouble, I will accept the allegiance of House Harrowmount, so long it is sincerely given.”

            Alistair doubted that greatly. Most of the Harrowmount retainers, those who hadn’t chosen to join their lord in death, were likely passing through the gates of Orzammar now for the surface. “They chose to leave rather than serve you,” he answered curtly. “They have chosen to live on the surface than see what Orzammar will become.”

            The King of Orzammar barked a sharp laugh. “Some of my reforms will see the surfacers restored to their Castes, because the Stone is topside as well as below, and the creation of a Surface Caste for those who can’t trace their ancestry back to a House.”

            Czibor, kinsman to Lord Harrowmount, sighed. “It is done, Ancestors preserve us,” he murmured.

            Bhelen turned away from Alistair to accept the allegiances of the Houses, leaving the Teyrn of the Avvar to return to the other topsiders.

            Duncan looked at peace as he spoke to Rica, a young dwarven boy at her side who wore a rich doublet and had a mop of auburn hair surrounding Bhelen’s face cast a little more finely. Alistair approached them and looked down at Bhelen’s bride. “Make certain your husband knows what honour is.”

            Queen Rica looked up at him with a raised eyebrow as the boy who had to be Endrin watched Alistair with guileless amber eyes. “There are many forms of honour, Teyrn,” she answered softly. “All I know is that one day, in a few years or so, a child from Dust Town will be born and its face not branded for the crime of having casteless parents.”

            Alistair flushed at the mild censure in her eyes and walked away. If Bhelen had won his throne fairly, he could respect what the man planned to do, but there would be so much blood shed the Stone would be red as a Brosca’s hair.

            Why was nothing simple?

            Out of respect for his late ally, he chose not to attend the coronation feast, leaving representation to Svarah and Amund. They would leave in a week or so, he imagined, with dwarven numbers swelling their ranks. If Mara claimed the Redcliffe and Kinloch Hold treaties, then all that would be left were the Dalish ones, and that would depend on whether the clans felt honour-bound to answer them. After losing their lands to the Chantry, Alistair couldn’t fault them if they didn’t.

            He found himself leaving Orzammar, needing to be around Avvar tonight. The cool clean air of the Lady’s wind eased him, chased away the oppressive weight of stone and dwarven politics, and guided him to the warband where Eileen was speaking with a small, fine-boned figure in a blue cloak with the hood down, showing ash-blonde hair. For a moment, he thought it was Mara until he heard the sound of a male voice, surprisingly deep for someone barely taller than an elvhen.

            “Speak of the red lion and he comes,” Eileen said, smiling at Alistair as he approached.

            The man, older than Alistair but ageless because of the battered, weathered wreck of his face, looked up at the Teyrn. “So you’re Mara’s Alistair then?” he asked brusquely.

            “She still thinks me so?” he snapped.

            The man’s face tightened. “She does. Regrets leaving you while pissed, but anger’s a good way to get anyone off their arse and she needed to claim her birthright with Fergus doing a good imitation of a tyrant. We took Highever a week ago, if you’re wondering.”

            “I thought Fergus had already retaken it.”

            “He lost it to Howe’s mercs.” The man smiled tightly. “Mara’s a Mac Eanraig through and through. Trapped Howe’s pathetic excuse for a navy in the harbour while Loghain attacked landward. Hammer and anvil strategy.”

            Alistair couldn’t hide his scepticism. “I thought she was shit at strategy, her own words.”

            The Mac Eanraig snorted. “On the shore, she’s terrible. But she’s the Seawolf’s daughter and on the seas, there’s none better.”

            “I… see.” Alistair recalled Mara saying something about her mother being a great fighter on the water.

            “I have a message for you from her. I’d tell you to go fuck yourself but I promised I’d give it to you.” The man, who hadn’t given Alistair his name, pulled out a small scroll and tossed it at the Teyrn, who managed to catch it. “I have to report to King Cailan.”

            “You’d best wait until tomorrow. They’re all getting drunk because a new King’s been chosen.” Alistair didn’t bother to hide the sourness in his voice. Harrowmount deserved better.

            “Bhelen won? Well, he’s open to trade with the Holds,” Eileen said thoughtfully.

            “He’s also dishonourable. Be wary of him.” Alistair nodded curtly and walked away to read Mara’s message in peace.

            The seal was a deep blue smelling of something floral, the wax impressed with an open book with a laurel crown and the motto ‘The Laurel Stands Unbroken’. He cracked it open and unfurled the parchment, which was smooth and thick under his hands, to read it by candlelight.

            _“Dearest Alistair, I should have waited until my temper cooled and attempted to explain why your well-meaning attempt to help me was wrong before leaving, but I would have had to leave regardless. We can’t wait in Orzammar, not when Fergus and Rendon Howe turn the Bannorn into a killing field while the darkspawn sit back and laugh, and we need to secure both Highever and Amaranthine, collect the Redcliffe and Kinloch Hold treaties, and then support Anora in Denerim. I was the best one to do it as the Tanist of Amaranthine and Teyrna-Elect of Highever, and with Teyrn Loghain supporting me, we’ve made great strides. Amaranthine will be next – I know some information about that place that only a Howe will know (my grandmother was one) and I hope to beat Fergus to taking it. If Nate’s inside, I’ll allow him to take Delilah into exile, but Thom needs to go to the headsman’s block because of actions he took within the Arling._

_I love you, though you probably don’t believe that at the moment. I need to prove to the bannorn of Highever and Amaranthine that I can stand for them, and that means standing for myself and making the decisions. I didn’t intervene in your election to become Teyrn of the Avvar, so I ask that you allow me to become Teyrna in my own right and not interfere, though I know you want to because I’m your wife. I’m sorry for being angry with you when you were trying to protect me but I wanted someone in the Howe family know how much Rendon’s actions wounded me._

_By the time you receive this letter, I will be taking Amaranthine. A long siege isn’t optional, so that means I need to be… creative. The Blight has taken Lothering and West Hills, wiping out Arl Wulffe’s two sons, so be careful coming out of the Frostbacks. Maker willing, I’ll meet you at Redcliffe within a few weeks._

_I love you. May your gods and mine watch over you._

_Mara, Teyrna-Elect of Highever, Arlessa-Tanist of Amaranthinr_

_P.S. Tell Cailan that he better get to Anora by the end of winter or she will have his guts for garters._

            Alistair lowered the scroll and let it roll up again, sighing. Mara implied in her letter that she was going to use dishonourable tactics to take Amaranthine, which was troubling, but if the Blight had taken West Hills… He stood up and bellowed for Azur, whose wife was kin to the Wulffes.

            When the handsome blond man arrived, Alistair said flatly, “Mara tells me that your wife’s family has been taken by the Blight, but for her father. If I understand Alamarri law right that makes her… Tanist?”

            “Arlessa-Tanist,” Azur promptly replied. “Damn. Her brothers were brave warriors in their own right. And if the Blight has taken the Arling, then our Holds are in danger.”

            “Aye. Get the priestesses to send their falcons to every Hold warning them that we’ve been flanked in the southwest.” Alistair tucked the letter away in his pocket to think about it later. He believed her when she said that she loved him… but how long could the love last when he was a Teyrn of the Avvar and she of the Alamarri?

            “Azur…” The man stopped and looked over his shoulder. “If your wife becomes Arlessa of West Hills, what will you do?”

            “Go with her. But I am not a Thane nor a Teyrn, so I have no conflicts of interest.” He nodded and left Alistair alone by the fire, cursing the fool who invented politics.


	26. The Low Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death, mention of torture and violence.

“I can’t believe that the son of the Seawolf didn’t think to blockade the harbour of Amaranthine,” Uncle Murtagh drawled as all ten curraghs sailed in under darkness. Fergus was still besieging the city from outside while Thom Howe held the walls, but neither of them had thought of the port beyond the great chain being raised – which, of course, was too high to stop the small leather-and-wood boats the Mac Eanraigs used. After seeing the heads lining the walls, Mara was rather glad they were coming in at night. The parallels of what they were doing here to what Howe did to Highever weren’t lost upon her and Mara refused to pretend otherwise. She wasn’t planning on stabbing anyone in the back, however, so she supposed she was a little better than Rendon Howe.

            “For all they hold port cities, neither the Couslands nor Howes have salt in their blood,” she replied. “After all, Vigil’s Keep is deep inlands on the Feravel Plains and that’s where the Howes have their seat.”

            She guided the tiller as the oarsmen, all oars muffled, rowed in silent unison. The Mac Eanraigs were the masters of night-time raids and she knew the Low Road into Amaranthine, an escape route for the Howes. In happier days, Nate had shown his Cousland cousin because they were both Howes in his eyes.

            _I wanted to see your face, Nate, to know you were as devastated by your father’s actions as I was…_ She was one of the few who knew why Nate and Rendon didn’t talk, a secret she kept to herself because it was none of the Uasal Ard’s business, and genuinely believed the former would have been horrified by the latter’s treachery. But she had to see it to believe it and Alistair took that option from her with the best of intentions.

            It was Zevran, stealthy even in knee-high water, who jumped off their curragh to help beach the fishing vessel. The Warden had taken to sailing as if born to sea, gladly hauling fish and learning the ways of a boat, and Mara was beginning to regret mistrusting him. Perhaps all he’d needed was the relative freedom of a Warden’s life to find himself.

            “I misjudged you, Zevran,” she said after disembarking from the boat with her bundle of armour.

            “No, you didn’t,” Zevran replied frankly as he tied the boat off, the other nine – each carrying ten sailors – coming in and beaching. “I would have killed you out of fear for the Crows.”

            “Becoming a Warden changed that or was it my good looks and charming personality?” Mara asked dryly.

            “I am good at killing things. Even if I’d won free of the Crows, I would still have worked as an assassin. But my time in Orzammar and the nightmares about the archdemon showed me there are things that need killing more than some random noble maiden with moderately good looks and a cold charm about her.” Zev smirked as they whispered.

            “Thanks, I think.”

            Then they fell silent. Surely Thom Howe would have assigned soldiers to the Low Road to guard it.

            He had, only two, both of whom were executed rather coldly by Zevran with a simple knife slash across the throat. Mara forced herself to watch, knowing that she had set this in motion and so she owed the dead the courtesy of not hiding from the dishonour.

            One hundred soldiers fanned out into the streets of Amaranthine, climbing along rooftops and washing lines. Their objective was Amaranthine Keep, home of Bann Esmerelle and no doubt where Thom Howe was staying as he tried to defend the city. Mara intended to take the Keep and pike Thom’s head at the gates for the atrocities he’d wrought in Highever. Delilah could go into exile with Nate but Mara would make the Howes who harmed the Couslands pay with their lives, albeit cleanly.

            They were discovered halfway through the winding streets of Amaranthine by a nobleman walking out at night with his guard despite the siege. “Lord Eddelbrek, are you insane?” Mara hissed at the stunned old man, a cousin of Bann Cosnach of the Feravel Plains and the richest farmer in the Arling – and more importantly a friend to the Couslands, if friend he was.

            “Little Lady Cousland,” Eddelbrek said with a weary smile. “Are you here to kill me?”

            Mara held up her right hand, the signet of the Tanist of Amaranthine flashing in the firelight. “Would you believe me if I said Nate Howe gave this to me?”

            “Yes, seeing as he managed to free Delilah from Vigil’s Keep before your brother took it,” the nobleman answered. “He’s been trying to get into the Keep for Thom but Esmerelle won’t let him in because Rendon is convinced the Grey Wardens are in league with Orlais and Nate’s wearing his uniform.”

            “The only place Thom Howe’s going is the headsman’s block for butchering the village of Oswin,” Mara replied tightly. “Nate and Delilah can go.”

            “Why are you gossiping with this old man?” Uncle Murtagh demanded. “Kill him and be done with it.”

            Eddelbrek took Mara’s hand and kissed the signet ring in fealty. “Go, Arlessa, and take the Keep before your brother does.”

            “I will, friend of my father’s,” Mara promised as she gestured for the others to let Eddelbrek past. “Uncle, see two of your best to guide Lord Eddelbrek home and make sure he stays there, safe and sound.”

            Mara might show mercy but she had to be pragmatic about it. Eddelbrek was a notorious gossip in his way.

            The old man smiled wryly, knowing why he was guarded, and allowed himself to be escorted away.

            She turned towards the Keep. “Let’s do this.”

…

“What’s good for the gander’s good for the goose I see,” Nate Howe said with a grimace as Mara opened the door to the hidden entrance. Delilah was with him, a pale shadow with wide scared eyes who looked at Mara like she was a demon incarnate.

            “Take your sister and leave,” Mara said coldly. “Your brother butchered the Bann of Oswin and the entire village, so I intend to have his head.”

            “Only after his soldiers were caught in a trap set by hunters!” Nate hissed. “And nothing personal, Mara, but your brother is no better than mine.”

            Delilah plucked at his leather sleeve. “Let’s go, Nate,” she suggested urgently. “I-I have to get out of here.”

            Mara looked on the gentlest of Howes with profound sorrow. “Maker watch over you, cousin,” she said softly.

            Nate looked torn between his loyalty to his brother and the need to rescue his sister, so Mara met his eyes and said, “My husband let you leave to rescue your sister. You’ve done that and my patience is at an end for all things Howe. So go.”

            The elder rogue flinched at whatever was in Mara’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

            Much to Uncle Murtagh’s reluctance, he allowed the Howes to pass before looking at Mara. “I suppose you’re going to let half the fucking enemy leave, lass?”

            “No. I’m out of kindness and have precious little mercy to give. Anyone who doesn’t surrender dies.”

            The Mac Eanraigs were a little too bloodthirsty for covert missions, though Zevran was nodding in satisfaction. Mara drew her daggers and led the way forward, reminding herself to have this way blocked when the Keep was hers.

            The skirmishes within the narrow corridors of the Keep were ugly, anyone who drew a weapon killed. Thankfully, the servants – all of whom wore the weary, battered faces of those beaten down into the mud – surrendered or hid, some of the braver few pointing out where soldiers were sleeping. It was slaughter, pure and simple, on anyone who wouldn’t surrender or attacked the Mac Eanraig soldiers.

            Three out of ten of the invading party died and it took another four casualties to break into Bann Esmerelle’s bedchamber. The dark-haired woman, older and harsh-faced, sat up in bed and swore vilely as Mara advanced. “What are you doing in here, you little Cousland bitch-?”

            Murtagh’s crossbow twanged and Esmerelle toppled over, blood blossoming on her white silk gown where the bolt jutted. “Cheated me on the last trade deal we had,” her uncle remarked calmly as he reloaded his crossbow.

            “You do realise that we now have no fucking idea where Thom Howe is?” Mara asked acidly.

            “He went to the gates, milady,” gasped a frightened elven maid. “Your brother’s pushing hard at them, seeing as you’re in here.”

            “What’s your name?” Mara asked, sheathing her daggers.

            “Ilona, milady.”

            “Round up some servants and haul the carrion outside. Whatever is on them that isn’t arms and armour is yours to keep, and when that’s piled up, I’ll let you pick _that_ too.” At Ilona’s startled expression, Mara smiled thinly. “I’m a ruthless bitch but the darkspawn are worse. The more hands carrying weapons, the more chance we’ll have to survive this Blight.”

            “Your brother executed most of the servants at Vigil’s Keep. I had a brother there,” Ilona remarked as she performed a quick scared curtsey.

            “I’m sorry,” Mara sighed. “I’m hoping that I can talk Fergus into a little mercy. Now go.”

            The maid, showing the wiry strength of her kind, hauled Esmerelle’s corpse off the bed, eyed the woman’s ornate emerald-and-gold necklace thoughtfully, and then spat on her.

            “Uncle Murtagh, the soldiers can get first pick of any jewellery in the vault,” Mara announced calmly. “Let the servants keep what they find on the corpses.”

            “Aye. No one, even an elf, should run like a fennec with ten wolves after them,” Murtagh readily agreed. “Now what?”

            “We leave twenty soldiers here to hold the Keep and attack Thom from behind.”

            Mara was walking through the great hall, where the surrendered soldiers were being kept, when she spotted a familiar face. “Seneschal Varel,” she said calmly.

            “My lady Cousland.” Varel rose to his knees and managed an elegant bow.

            Mara held up the signet ring. “Nate left with Delilah after giving me this. I let him leave. I will offer you and yours who weren’t at Highever a choice: fight for the Arlessa-Tanist of Amaranthine or receive a quick chop to the back of the neck. I won’t torture you for kicks and giggles or out of some perverted sense of justice.”

            Murtagh dropped Esmerelle’s head with a grim smile. It rolled across the stone floor, leaking blood, and smacked Varel’s knees. The Howe seneschal remained stony-faced as he contemplated Mara’s offer.

            “Will the same apply to Lord Thomas?” Varel asked.

            “I’ll have his head for Oswin, but it will be a quick death,” Mara answered grimly.

            “Then… we will fight for the Arlessa-Tanist of Amaranthine. The Teyrn of Highever is someone else, however.” Varel’s defiant stare dared her to take the acceptance or kill them all.

            “So be it. I’m hoping you’ll be fighting darkspawn because I’m under sword-oath to aid the Wardens.”

            “Ah yes, the true enemy to the south that everyone has seemed to forget about,” Varel said tightly as he rose to his feet. “Lady Cousland… Arlessa Cousland, rather. I spoke out against Arl Howe’s plans and he saw me thrown in the dungeon. Thom let me out because he needed swords.”

            “He shows none of the tell-tale signs of lying,” Zevran noted quietly.

            The soldiers were returned their arms and Mara showed her back to them. If she was going to die, it would be now.

            But no one attacked and they streamed out of the Keep as a red morning dawned. Like a sgian dubh to the back, the Arlessa of Amaranthine’s troops struck from behind, cleaving through Thom Howe’s force like the needle-point dirk through a chainmail shirt. It was appropriate, as all of her meagre rogue training had been focused on this sort of task: Fergus was the House honour and she was to pay the price for it. Except that both had probably lost their way.

            Two Mac Eanraigs opened the gates as Thom Howe turned around, pale face in despair as Howe eyes widened. “Well, aren’t you a Howe?” he sneered.

            “We share the same great-grandmother,” Mara said blandly. “You’re a dead man, Thom. Surrender to me and I’ll give you a clean death. If Fergus catches you, it won’t be so pretty.”

            In the moment of triumph, of justice realised, she missed the crossbow bolt that took her in the belly. Pain radiating from the agony, her knees buckled and her head hit the stone, plunging her into darkness.

           


	27. The Longest Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for violence and death, including that of a child. Both Mara and Alistair need to come to terms with their darker sides if they’re going to grow as people. I don’t know how they’ll react to that.

Teagan Guerrin flinched as the Chantry doors opened, allowing the bright syrupy sunlight of an autumn afternoon pour inside and light Cailan like a statue of Calenhad the Great. He wondered if he had died and gone to the Maker’s side, his nephew waiting to greet him, but Cailan strode forward and hugged him with rib-cracking enthusiasm. “What in the name of the Maker is going on here?” he asked, single blue eye narrowed.

            “We’re being besieged by the undead,” Teagan told the King bluntly. “For nigh-on a month now. Everyone from the Farms to Rebel Queen’s Ravine is here and half of them are dead.”

            Cailan blanched. “I knew that Uncle Eamon was sick but… Maker’s breath, I thought Mara Cousland and her men would be here.”

            Teagan’s eyebrow shot up. “You’re trusting the sister of a known traitor?”

            “I’m trusting my sister-in-law,” Cailan replied dryly as a bigger version of Maric in bloodstone-edged red steel chainmail and a very fine red-lion fur cloak entered, gently pushing aside young Kaitlyn and her brother Bevan, who goggled at him.

            “I set orders to the men to trap the passes and for the shaman-born to hold them,” he announced in an Avvar-accented variant of Maric’s voice, elf-gold eyes looking down at Teagan beneath a simple fillet of gold-washed iron. Being descended from Avvar who were converted to the Maker, the Bann of Rainesferre knew exactly what that crown meant.

            “Meet Alistair, who is what happens when Father dallies with an elven Warden-Mage and has Duncan leave the child with the Avvar,” Cailan said lightly, gesturing to his behemoth of a half-brother. “Teyrn of the Avvar by vote, acclaimed Teyrn by an Alamarri warband, Lifter of Loghain into cupboards and rather awkwardly married to the Lady Cousland, who is now apparently Teyrna-Elect of Highever and Arlessa-Tanist of Amaranthine because he sent Nate Howe along to find his siblings before Fergus could gut them like carp or worse.”

            “Trying to spare my wife pain apparently meant undermining her,” Alistair observed with a sigh.

            “As a foreign ruler, making a decision like that concerning the scion of a family guilty of treason is undermining the authority of the one who has the right to judge them,” Teagan explained automatically, trying to wrap his head around the little fire grenades Cailan dropped so casually. “At best, you are saying the Lady Cousland is incapable of making the judgment herself and at worst painting her as the puppet of a greater power, which tends to piss off the freeholders and Banns to no end.”

            Alistair was obviously no fool as his eyes lit up in understanding. “You, I like. You explain things simply, unlike Cailan here.”

            Teagan managed a wry smirk. “Cailan likes to use me as a diplomat. It means I’ve learned to speak slowly and simply.”

            “And yet my brother has learned nothing. Ouch!” Cailan punched Alistair in the shoulder with a rueful grin.

            “He was always a difficult student,” Teagan observed blandly, releasing his tension in the light banter.

            Several Wardens entered, led by Duncan – who appeared about two decades older and worn by grief, which indicated Brytta had died at Ostagar – and Ser Cauthrien. “We’re fighting because if we don’t, the undead will start overwhelming our men,” the knight was explaining to a dwarf with flaming red hair.

            “Wish we had some of them golems we were promised,” the dwarf grumbled.

            “We don’t, so deal with it,” Cauthrien said bluntly. “I want you stationed with Jowan. Try not to get our only Warden-Mage killed.”

            Grumbling, he walked out with the pale, messy-haired man in mage robes, leaving Duncan giving one of his famous aggrieved sighs. “Carver, I want you to try and find out where the residues of magic are coming from,” he ordered a tall, broad-shouldered Warden in heavy plate. “Where they are strongest is where you will stand.”

            “I’ll set up them traps,” a wiry man with the look of a Chasind and the accent of a Denerim criminal offered.

            “Thank you.”

            Teagan stared as the orders for the defence were neatly taken out of his hands. “How many warriors did you bring?” he asked carefully.

            “Fifteen hundred or so, a mixed force of Avvar, survivors from Ostagar and dwarves,” Cailan replied. “We were going to meet Mara with the northern forces and the mages here, but she’s running late, no doubt bogged down besieging Amaranthine.”

            Teagan’s fists clenched. “I thought you said you could trust her!”

            “We can,” Alistair said harshly. “If she won’t bring down Fergus, then those with her will. I gave them orders to do so, to spare kin-blood on her hands.”

            “Loghain will be happy to do it,” Cailan agreed grimly. “Mara’s apparently the Seawolf born again when it comes to naval tactics and even if she’s going to no doubt use covert skills to take Amaranthine, she’s a bit too soft-hearted. Fergus Cousland is a rabid dog who deserves to be hung.”

            On that Teagan could agree. He quickly explained what was going on to a greatly matured Cailan as Alistair gathered the civilians inside the Chantry and began to deliver gentle but firm instructions, obviously familiar with sieges. They obeyed, glad to have someone who knew what they were doing.

            When he was done, Cailan sighed. “I don’t know why or who poisoned Uncle Eamon, but by the gods, they’ll hang alongside Cousland. My suspicion’s Rendon Howe, personally.”

            That made sense. Fergus was claiming the crown through battle, not poison. Mara, on the other hand, would be cold enough to do so if she wanted the position. Not that Teagan was going to say that in front of Alistair, who was obviously an honourable man who believed the best of his cold-eyed bride.

            “You two must stay in here,” Alistair said brusquely. “I will lead the battle outside; if I fall, Amund will be Teyrn.”

            “Please don’t die,” Cailan said softly. “I’ve only just gotten used to having a brother.”

            “I have no intention of doing so, big brother.” Alistair squeezed his kinsman’s shoulder before walking outside.

            Teagan murmured a prayer before sitting down to listen to Cailan’s adventures. It would be a way to pass the time.

…

Of course the battle was won by the forces of Redcliffe, seeing as it was led by Cailan’s more talented brother, who knew more about defensive warfare than even Loghain. Riordan watched the red light of dawn creep over the windmill and rejoiced, bathing in the promise of another day under the sun. He would go down into the dark and die, but not today.

            He handed the Green Blade back to the family from whom he’d borrowed it, an orphaned brother and sister, and handed them a few sovereigns just to see Kaitlyn smile. He’d already forced Lloyd to fight and saw the fat man gutted like a trout, meaning that he could hand over the inn to Bella, a lovely redhead who had no shame about being a barmaid. Riordan was a bastard and a Warden, so he wasn’t much better, and Bella did have a lovelier smile than Kaitlyn, full and rich like a fine wine…

            He was drawn out his reverie by the snap of fingers and a cheerful grin from Daveth, who was running around like the otter his clan was named for. If not for the Chasind’s traps, a lot more men would have died.

            Now they had to enter Castle Redcliffe, where Carver _and_ Jowan claimed the magic originated from, and according to Cailan there was a tunnel beneath the river. A few hours’ nap would see them ready to fight more undead, because _of course_ there would be more in there. Riordan wasn’t one of life’s little optimists, after all.

            Bella greeted him with a kiss, the soldiers dropping their jaws as they drank in the corner, and Riordan returned it enthusiastically. He liked sex with willing women and judging by the way Bella grabbed his ass, she was more than willing. Shame he had to sleep.

            Five hours later, the sun at noon, and Cailan was banging enthusiastically on the door. The King had far too much energy for a man who hid in the Chantry while others fought outside and apparently he was going to lead the group into the castle. What could go wrong there?

            Riordan followed sourly, accompanied by Cauthrien and Jowan, and they wandered through the bowels of the castle after Teagan gave them the signet. Said bowels of castle were full of undead and skeletons that reeked of lake water and sewage while there was a group of feral mabaris at one point. The Warden picked locks as necessary, wishing he was back at the inn Bella had declared would be called ‘Riordan’s Rest’, something he could certainly use.

            The corpses got fresher as they climbed up, culminating in a group of bewitched knights in the courtyard controlled by a Revenant. Cailan ran faster than any man had a right to in gilded heavy plate, opening the gates to let Alistair and fifty picked soldiers enter, the Avvar behemoth Amund heading straight for the revenant and finishing it in one swing of his massive hammer.

            Then they went inside, killed more corpses, Daveth and Riordan collecting some of the choicer portable items as an unofficial tithe to the Wardens, and finally wound up in the great hall with a possessed boy, several enchanted soldiers and a dull-eyed Isolde Guerrin.

            “New toys!” the boy cried out, his voice overlaid with demonic power.

            “I think not,” Alistair said, whipping out a throwing axe and releasing it with the easy grace of one who has done it often.

            The weapon was deflected by the boy, who ran and left the hall, his enchanted warriors attacking the soldiers. It ended poorly, even when demons came out to play, because there were fifty or so pissed-off, hardened veterans led by a pair of barbarians who laid waste to everything in sight, a grim-faced, one-eyed king, an angry knight and a blood mage who could boil blood with a gesture.

            When one of the templars from the Chantry used Smite on Isolde, she woke up and started crying about her baby Connor.

            “That was… Connor?” Cailan blurted. “Maker’s breath…”

            “That is an abomination now,” Alistair said grimly. “The boy is dead.”

            “We could kill the demon in the Fade, but I would need to kill someone to send a mage there, and we have no one who will undergo the ritual because ‘blood magic’,” Jowan observed calmly.

            “Take my life and free my baby!” Isolde cried. “He’s still in there.”

            “You. Knew. Connor. Was. A. Mage.” Cailan enunciated every word coldly, his tone furious. “Aunt Isolde, he has killed dozens, possibly hundreds of people!”

            “He’s just a boy!” Isolde wailed.

            Riordan sighed and turned to Jowan. “Gather the mages and see if anyone will undergo the ritual-“

            “No.” Cailan cut through Riordan’s sentence with one word. “The abomination dies.”

            “He’s the only thing keeping Eamon alive!” Isolde cried out.

            “I’ll get Garrett Hawke and Leliana to heal the Arl with some Ashes while I and someone else deal with the abomination,” Cailan decided. “Alistair?”

            “Take Carver Hawke, he is a templar, and Amund is skilled at killing demons too,” the Teyrn of the Avvar promptly answered.

            “Eager to kill a boy?” Riordan asked, suddenly nettled by the man’s easy agreement to Cailan’s decision. “What happened to that vaunted Avvar honour of yours?”

            Elf-gold eyes turned his way. “I lost good warriors because of this abomination. None of the shaman-born amongst the Avvar will consent to blood magic and since the spirit is twisted into a demon, our rites to throw out an unwanted guest in a mage’s body will not work. It dies.”

            Riordan walked right up to Alistair, getting into his face. “Don’t you ever make a judgment call about my kinswoman’s decisions again,” he told the Avvar. “At least Mara is honest in her pragmatism.”

            He walked out, leaving the brothers Theirin to kill a child as their mother wailed. Woman had probably hidden her son because the templars were assholes. Whoever poisoned Eamon was responsible for this, not the boy and not even the mother.

            He returned to the inn and collected a couple bottles of wine. Time to get shitfaced drunk because it had been the longest night of his life.


	28. Wind from the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for discussed death of a child, execution and fantastic racism. The politics in this story are pretty much inspired by Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, Rome and the Tudors.

“Duncan can do nothing about Riordan’s attitude as he’s a Senior Warden from another country,” Cailan said sourly as he took a place by Alistair’s fire, a jug of ale in one hand and a net-bag of cheese in the other. “Bad enough we had to kill the boy because of Aunt Isolde’s actions, but I had to pass judgment on her then and there. A member of the Uasal Ard concealing a mage-born from their own bloodline is treason and so I had to execute her.”

            Alistair handed his brother a drinking horn. He had left shortly after Riordan’s words, ostensibly to oversee the Avvar’s camp at the Crossroads but in reality to escape the twinge of guilt they’d produced. Killing an abomination was the only way to deal with it once the spirit had become twisted into a demon and possessed a human – that and blood magic was utterly forbidden to the shaman-born of the Avvar. Jowan, he discovered, had turned to blood magic in order to become a better mage and escape something called the Rite of Tranquility, trying to free himself and his lover from the Circle. When he struck down a half-dozen templars, three mages and Duncan, the Warden-Commander switched from his original choice of someone called Muirne to Conscript Jowan, offering to take Lily with them. But she refused and submitted to Aeonar, the mages’ prison, because blood magic twisted people.

            Cailan filled the horn and drank it down in one long swallow. “Garrett Hawke tells me Uncle Eamon is stabilised but it would take a true Spirit Healer like Wynne to wake him up with the Ashes. Bann Teagan has assumed the post of Arl-Regent until this situation is resolved, one way or another.”

            “This happened because of your Chantry making shaman-born and others fearful of their magic,” Alistair said softly, pouring himself some ale from the jug. “Mara once told me that in some Circles, the abomination rate is one out of three. Back a shaman-born into a corner, tell them they are evil, and they will call for whatever help they can find.”

            “If I remain King, I fully intend to shake up the Circle,” Cailan agreed grimly. “I think I’ll borrow a bit from the Avvar and promote the Mages’ Collective, invite some Seers from Rivain… The Circle at Diarsmuid reputedly only has an abomination rate of one in ten, and a Tranquility rate of one in twenty.”

            “Spirits become demons when their original purpose is denied,” Alistair pointed out, recalling lessons from Ramhold’s shaman. “For all we know, Connor could have called upon a spirit of healing and when possessed, it turned into a desire demon because he obviously desired to heal his father.”

            “I had Jowan go through Isolde’s papers. It turned out her grandfather was an apostate who terrified them all. She apparently thought that Connor could learn from the books the old bastard left behind…” Cailan drank another horn of ale. “Garrett Hawke is positively livid. I’m not sure if it’s with us, Isolde, Jowan or the Circle system as a whole.”

            “All of the above, I imagine,” Alistair said dourly, sipping his ale. “I’m sorry for putting that choice on your shoulders, Cailan. But even if Connor had been freed of the demon, he would have been spiritually twisted for the rest of his life. We have possessed shaman-born amongst the Avvar, those who bonded too well with their tutelary spirits. Some become awesome healers, others mighty protectors. One is an extraordinary matchmaker. But they are all watched, by auger, shaman and spirit alike, and if any become a problem they fall asleep and never wake.”

            “I wish I’d known. Uncle Eamon would have been devastated, but I could have arranged for Connor to have the best teaching and made him Court Enchanter of Ferelden.” Cailan’s voice was bitter. “I made the only choice I could, a choice you didn’t put upon me, and now half the _Wardens_ are looking at me like I’m a baby-killer. Even _Carver_ , who helped, because he didn’t know the abomination was a child.”

            “I suspect that they were going to Conscript Connor and make him Jowan’s apprentice,” Alistair mused. “I can see why Jowan’s angry because the templars literally drag children, kicking and screaming, from their homes and their parents cannot remain in contact. That scars people.”

            “Indeed. And it will be something I’ll change if I stay on the throne.” Cailan’s voice was fierce. “I won’t let my cousin and aunt’s deaths be in vain!”

            Alistair squeezed his brother’s shoulder. When he was no longer Teyrn, he couldn’t be a Thane or hold any position of authority amongst the Avvar, not even as Master of the Hunt. He was getting used to commanding and being obeyed… Not enjoying it, exactly, but Alistair knew he’d dislike returning to the position of the commanded. Perhaps he could remain amongst the Alamarri as Cailan’s supporter.

            They were halfway through the jug and dividing a fine wheel of cheese between them when Daveth arrived. “Loghain’s back,” he announced. “Dunno if he got Milady Mara with him, but there’s a lot of wounded.”

            Alistair stood up carefully, grateful he and Cailan had a good capacity for alcohol. It wouldn’t look good to be drunk in front of Cailan’s father-in-law or Alistair’s wife.

            The Teyrn of Gwaren strode through the camp like a charging bronco, face grimmer than usual, which meant he looked like he’d seen the end of days. “We need to get to Denerim,” he said flatly. “Fergus Cousland took the Pilgrim’s Path after we drove him from Amaranthine and he’s besieging Anora.”

            “Where’s Mara?” Alistair asked quickly. He missed her and now that Teagan had explained what he’d done wrong with Nate Howe, he wanted to apologise.

            “Shot in the stomach by her own brother’s mercenaries,” Loghain growled. “Mara and the Mac Eanraigs infiltrated Amaranthine and took the Keep. Fergus Cousland broke in at the gates and one of his soldiers used a crossbow. I don’t know if it was aimed at Thom Howe or Mara herself – she was about to execute him – but the Mac Eanraigs returned fire and sounded an alarm we’d decided on for when I was to attack. It… turned bloody. Fergus managed to escape with several hundred men, all mercenaries, while the knights and a few of the more reputable mercenary companies – Bull’s Chargers, Rainier’s Riders – surrendered at the command of Ser Gilmore.”

            “Is Mara alive?” Cailan asked, voicing the question Alistair couldn’t find the breath to make.

            “What? Yes!” Loghain actually looked embarrassed. “Wynne’s with her and she’ll make it, but…”

            “But?” Cailan asked softly.

            “She… will be the last of the Couslands unless someone from a cadet line takes the name. The wound was fairly severe and Mara nearly bled to death, so the scarring has rendered her infertile.”

            “Maker’s breath,” Cailan sighed, glancing at Alistair.

            He echoed the sigh. “She is alive and that’s what matters. I should go to her.”

            Loghain nodded as the Highever party trickled in, everyone walking wounded or on stretchers. Behind them marched a couple hundred soldiers, battered and worn but relatively intact compared to the Highever forces, led by the biggest ox-man Alistair had ever seen. He knew a little of the grey-skinned race but had never seen one in the flesh outside of some Orlesian mercenaries. That horn configuration looked familiar…

            “Tal-Vashoth?” Cailan asked Loghain cryptically.

            “I suspect so. Iron Bull’s soldiers are good ones, tight and disciplined. Cut their teeth killing Orlesians.” Loghain nodded to the tall, black-bearded man walking beside the Tal-Vashoth, if that was the correct name for them. “Thom Rainier of the Riders.”

            Teagan, who just arrived, raised an eyebrow. “I know him. Won the melee at the Grand Tourney.”

            Alistair ignored them, looking for Wynne’s tall, slender frame, and finding it wrapped in travel-stained silk sitting on a swayback horse leading another horse, both of them carrying a litter. Much to his surprise, Mara was on the second horse, a shabby and half-dead gelding, while someone else was on the litter.

            “Murtagh Mac Eanraig is holding Amaranthine and Ser Gilmore was sent back to Highever,” Loghain explained gruffly. “Mara insisted on returning with the treaties.”

            “Any word on Rendon Howe?” Cailan asked.

            “None. He seems to have vanished…”

            Alistair missed the rest of the conversation because he wanted to catch Mara before anyone else. The paired horses came to a stop, the person in the stretcher – swathed in bandages – moaning in pain as Wynne dismounted and laid a healing hand on their brow. Alistair went to Mara’s horse and asked softly, “Will I undermine you if I help you climb down from the horse?”

            He was serious and Mara must have sensed it, because she simply shook her head and let him act as a mounting block, his joined hands a step as she climbed down with a grunt of pain.

            She leaned on him, walking slowly as they returned to Alistair’s fire where Loghain and Teagan were arguing. “I sent Morrigan and Zevran to Kinloch Hold for the treaties,” she said hoarsely. “We’ll need to keep the army here, to counter the darkspawn, while a small group tries to find the Dalish.”

            “Teagan tells me we can provision them here and he’s certain Eamon will approve when he awakes,” Alistair said quietly.

            “Good,” Mara said quietly. “Loghain will want to take soldiers north, which is his right, but… I don’t know. Rendon Howe went _somewhere_. That somewhere could have been an alliance with Anora.”

            “We’ll find out soon enough, I guess,” Alistair observed with a sigh. “Sit and I will get you something to eat.”

            “My brother is stabilised. You cannot mean to let him die without trying to heal him!” Teagan protested.

            “We need an Arl of Redcliffe who is able of body and mind,” Loghain retorted. “After so long ill, Eamon cannot possibly be either.”

            “I’ve already fucking murdered my demon-possessed cousin and executed my aunt, now you want me to add my uncle to the list?” Cailan asked acidly. “No, Loghain. I want Healer Wynne to see him healed.”

            The Teyrn scowled at Cailan but didn’t argue. “He can wait until Wynne’s done with our wounded,” the dark-haired man announced before stalking away.

            “I see events have been… _interesting_ ,” Mara observed ironically.

            “One way of putting it, Lady Cousland,” Teagan told her tersely.

            “Teyrna,” Mara answered calmly. “I am Teyrna-Elect of Highever and Arlessa-Elect of Amaranthine. The northern bannorn have forsaken Fergus.”

            Her voice was weary and sad. This was her brother, the one she loved, and her only kin. He had now become a monster.

            “And where do you stand?” Teagan asked bluntly.

            “With Highever and Amaranthine,” Mara responded with equal candour. “The bannorn of the north have tentatively elected to support Cailan, provided he is willing to explain himself to the Landsmeet. A lot of this mess started with him.”

            Cailan nodded. “I will gladly do so, Teyrna Cousland.”

            “I intend to place the Mac Eanraigs as next-in-line to Highever and the Gilmores as next-in-line to Amaranthine,” Mara continued. “Nate and Delilah Howe went into exile; I have no intention of pursuing them because we’ve all done enough killing of each other while the darkspawn raid from the south.”

            The King nodded. “I will recognise said choices, Teyrna. I assume…”

            “I know I’m infertile. Sorry I can’t provide that Cousland-Theirin heir you wanted.” Mara’s weak laugh was mirthless. “Alistair and I will need to talk later about what this means for our marriage.”

            Alistair’s right hand clenched into a fist. “We will knot a rope, you will sing the hymn to the Lady of the Skies, and I will unknot the rope. However many knots I undo will be the years we are married.”

            “Not now I hope,” Mara said wryly as she winced. “I’m in pain and I want to sleep.”

            It wasn’t the answer he was hoping for but Alistair would have to accept it. Even wounded, there was a harshness in Mara now, the last remnants of the shy girl betrothed to Dairren gone. He… wasn’t sure how to react. Did she still love him?

            Alistair watched her accept help from a Highever soldier to rise and go somewhere else. He didn’t know what to do now and that hurt most of all.


	29. A Tangled Twist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for discussion of misogyny, death, violence, grief and injury.

The scar from the crossbow bolt was a knot of white tissue on her pale skin between her navel and the triangle of flesh framed by her hips, a knot that had insured that she would truly be the last of the Couslands. Mara tried to feel some sense of sorrow at a centuries-old lineage ending in the slender frame of a Half-Tranquil girl too cold and odd to get along with most people, but the greater part of her emotions was relief. Noblewomen were reduced to the sum of their parts, in particular the ability to bear legitimate heirs, and she’d always chafed at that. Now with genuine evidence of her barrenness, Lady Cousland had passed from walking womb to something more, perhaps an object of pity for those who prided themselves on fertility, but she was no more desired simply because of her bloodline. Now, the Uasal Ard would have to deal with a Cousland who had nothing to lose and nothing to prove, because in her the legacy of the Couslands would be decided.

            Alistair sat down on the chair in her tent, golden eyes intent. Uncle Riordan had told her of him and Cailan deciding to kill the abomination Connor had become and the execution of Isolde, expecting her to be disgusted with the Avvar’s hypocrisy, but Mara understood the greater responsibility lay with avenging the dead and protecting the living. Connor had killed dozens, perhaps even hundreds of people, and Isolde had betrayed her husband and those who relied upon the Guerrins for protection. The thin thread of the Guerrin bloodline rested on Teagan’s shoulders now, whether or not Eamon was awoken, because he was younger and more virile than the Arl of Redcliffe.

            “I don’t care you can’t have children,” Alistair said, breaking the silence.

            “Honestly, I’m of the same mind,” Mara admitted with a sigh. Her belly ached but she could move and fight if need be. “The Mac Eanraigs have married in and out of the Couslands for generations and they’ll pay more attention to the port than my family ever did. Uncle Murtagh’s too old to train properly but I have a few cousins with keen eyes and keener wits who will do. And the Gilmores deserve Amaranthine for their loyalty.”

            “So why should that change our marriage then?” the Avvar asked quietly. “I understand, now, what I did wrong… Unless you are tired of the marriage and wish to end it? If so, just say it. Even the knotted rope may be cut and honour-price paid if a couple truly can’t abide each other.”

            “Every word I wrote in that letter, I meant,” Mara answered softly. “I still love you, Alistair.”

            He shrugged. “Then it is settled.”

            Mara nodded in relief. She’d missed Alistair’s strength and unwavering support in the campaign for Highever and Amaranthine. “I’m not judging you or Cailan for the decisions you made involving the Guerrins. Connor was a danger and Isolde committed treason. The Wardens, for all their pragmatism, fail to understand that.”

            “I asked them if the situation would be different if the Blight was involved, Connor a ghoul that Isolde was hiding,” Alistair said, knotting jesses for a hawk. “Riordan told me not to judge you for the actions you take while Daveth nodded – but then, he is Chasind and they understand harsh choices. Cailan, if he remains King, will see things change for the Circle despite the Chantry’s wishes.”

            “Then Connor and Isolde didn’t die in vain.” Mara reached over to pour herself a cup of water. “What news of Arl Eamon?”

            “Wynne is doing her best. The Avvar shaman-born seem to be treating her as an auger,” Alistair replied. “Loghain still doesn’t see the point of it.”

            Mara rather thought that the Teyrn of Gwaren knew more than he was letting on, but kept that suspicion to herself. Whether or not the Mac Tirs poisoned Eamon, what mattered was that she needed the general. Eamon was only trustworthy so much as he prized his connection to the Mabari Throne as Cailan’s uncle.

            Alistair was developing court instincts; his golden eyes narrowed. “He protests too much,” the Avvar mused.

            “We need him. And… well, Eamon was the one who was really egging Cailan on to make overtures to the Orlesians,” Mara said quietly. “Half of being a member of the Uasal Ard is keeping your friends close and enemies closer.”

            Alistair grunted sourly. “Then I hope never to be counted amongst their ranks. I will stand by Cailan’s side – and yours – but don’t give me a lowlander title.”

            “You know you already bear one in the title of ‘Prince’,” Mara said dryly, noting that he put Cailan’s name first. “Prince Alistair FitzMaric Theirin, Teyrn-Acclaimed of Ferelden, Teyrn-Matrimonial of Highever, Arl-Matrimonial of Amaranthine.”

            The warrior’s tanned skin paled as the realisation that yes, he was part of the Uasal Ard sunk in. Mara pitied him a little; he would have been happier as a Warden.

            “If that’s too much burden to bear, I’m sure the Wardens could take you in,” she pointed out.

            “I could not be a Warden now,” he answered sourly. “I am too used to commanding, not being commanded.”

            “Then come to terms with your heritage, Alistair. You will be an Arl in your own right at the very least, of Denerim if nothing else because rumour paints Vaughn as dead in an elven riot, good riddance to him,” Mara said pitilessly. “It may be that you will need to sire a Theirin heir if Cailan remains King, or even become Crown Prince of Ferelden with the Couslands stricken from the succession through treason and barrenness.”

            She was Teyrn-Elect and Arlessa-Elect, only the Landsmeet could strip her of both titles for treason, and she hadn’t been treasonous. But she was outside of the succession now, because what Landsmeet would want a barren queen?

            “You speak as if our marriage won’t last a lifetime,” Alistair finally said.

            Mara met his eyes. “How many knots can you untie in a rope?”

            She felt guilty when he flinched. Mara had lost the ability to speak polite lies when her brother’s soldiers shot her.

            “Korth Mountain-Father has left his mark on you,” Alistair observed after several tense moments. “I guess nothing lasts forever.”

            He rose from his chair to approach her. “But so long as this lasts, you are my wife, and I will love you.”

            Mara let him kiss her, enjoying the warm bulk that had come to mean strength and safety to her for the moment. So long as it lasted, he was her husband, and she loved him.

…

“You let our finest healer work herself into exhaustion for… this.”

            Loghain’s blunt scornful tone said it all as they looked down at the vacant face of Arl Eamon Guerrin. The man’s eyes were closed, his body emaciated and his skin faintly yellow. Mara didn’t think he’d be long for this world.

            “Can’t say we haven’t tried our best,” Cailan said with a sigh. “Uncle Teagan, I’m sorry, but…”

            Teagan Guerrin looked up from his brother, handsome face lined with deeper grooves around eyes and lips than she recalled a year ago. “I understand.”

            “I will leave Eamon’s care to you,” Cailan said regretfully. “But arrange it quickly: we must march to Denerim.”

            Mara chose to slip out, leaving the Theirin, Guerrin and Mac Tir to sort out Eamon’s fate. She walked down the corridor to the guest room allotted to Duncan and Riordan, who were comfortable enough with each other to share two cots in the same room. With all the nobility, only the commanding Wardens got a bedroom in Redcliffe Castle.

            Much to her surprise and relief, Zevran and Morrigan were there, having returned from Kinloch Hold. “I would rather not discuss the events at the Circle, but we have the treaty,” the elf said flatly. “The mages will come.”

            “Good,” Duncan said with a sigh.

            “Are you two alright?” Mara asked of those she sent to Kinloch Hold.

            “I have been… better,” the witch answered. “In short, the templars drove the mages to rebellion and their use of blood magic resulted in a good many becoming abominations. We, another mage and a templar dealt with the demons, but it was… harrowing, to say the least.”

            Mara nodded, deciding not to push it. If those two were disturbed, better to let them reclaim their equilibrium. “That leaves the Dalish treaties,” she said decisively.

            “I know a few clans in the Brecilian,” Duncan immediately said. “Lady Cousland, non-Warden shemlen will just aggravate tensions, even Alistair. Go to Denerim: the fight against the Blight needs you there, not poring over ancient texts.”

            Mara nodded once. “Very well.”

            “My mother was Dalish,” Zevran said, looking at Duncan. “I don’t know if that means much, but…”

            “Even city elves are preferable to shemlen where the Dalish are concerned,” Duncan said gravely. “I think, to avoid accusations of political bias, it would be best to have no Wardens at the Landsmeet-“

            “No. I have been in contact with Anora and she knows I am coming,” Riordan interrupted. “A Warden will need to be there, to show Ferelden its fate if they don’t unite against the Blight.”

            Duncan sighed; he had no authority over Riordan. “Be careful, old friend. I can’t stand to lose you as well as Brytta.”

            Riordan smiled thinly. “I’ll be around at least until the archdemon shows up.”

            “I intend to beat you to it,” Duncan countered with a weary smile.

            “Don’t you know? I will smile at it, ask it to pretty please die, and it will be so dazzled with me after our nights of passion that it will do so,” Zevran said dryly.

            Morrigan’s sceptical snort said it all and even Mara chuckled.

            Duncan looked over at her, expression sorrowful. “Lady Cousland, I hope that you will be able to talk sense into the Landsmeet. Alistair is an outsider, Cailan… Well, he has a lot of explaining to do, and Teagan is new to the role of Arl, so it will fall to you.”

            “If Gallagher Wulffe and Leonas Bryland are in Denerim, I’ll have a better chance,” Mara answered softly.

            “Thank you.” Duncan sighed and regarded her gravely. “How are you and Alistair going?”

            “We’re… going,” Mara admitted quietly. “Plans for a future mean little in a Blight.”

            Duncan’s lips tightened. “I wish I’d never released him from his Conscription.”

            “The man he is now would never consent to another one. He is used to commanding, not being commanded.”

            “And Cailan needs him too much,” Riordan rasped. “Fiona and Maric made their choices, you made yours, and Alistair has made his.”

            Duncan’s dark eyes rebuked Mara. “He deserves better than lukewarm affection, Lady Cousland.”

            “He has all I can give him at this moment,” Mara retorted. “I love him and will do so as long as our marriage lasts.”

            The Warden-Commander didn’t look happy but he acquiesced at Riordan’s pointed look. Mara took the opportunity to incline her head and leave the room.

            Duncan’s words stung. She _loved_ Alistair, very much so, but she wasn’t blind to political reality with the Landsmeet on its way. Marriages could be dissolved through barrenness, a religious vow or by decree of the King in extreme cases. Even if she knotted a rope for Alistair to untie, the realities of politics could force them apart.

            The tangled twist of her life was much like the knot of scar tissue on her belly which had ended her lineage. Mara buried her face in her hands, finally realising that all the Couslands were would end with her, and the legacy of the Laurel Crown would be treason and a barren womb. Tears ran through her fingers, tasting of salt and grief, and it was the last time she wept for herself in the Fifth Blight.


	30. Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for discussion of misogyny, death and violence. Timeskip to advance the plot.

Anora set aside the last sheaf of papers but for a scrap of parchment covered in her father’s broad scrawl. Fort Drakon had a comfortable set of rooms at its top, her refuge since the strange siege of Denerim had begun, and enough rooms for all the ravens the Queen of Ferelden needed. The daytime détente between Rendon Howe and Fergus Cousland was cold and full of thorns, sharper since the Teyrn of Highever had thrown Thomas Howe’s head at Rendon’s feet at the last meeting she held, and the night full of ambushes and assassinations. If not for Maric’s Shield being stuffed into Fort Drakon, she would have been forcibly married to one of those traitorous bastards.

            _“Eamon is no longer a threat,”_ her father had written in their private code. _“Teagan Guerrin stands with Cailan as Arl-Regent. Mara Cousland is Teyrna-Elect of Highever and Arlessa-Elect of Amaranthine, a crossbow bolt from her brother’s own man leaving her the last of the Couslands. She stands with Cailan, I believe. Maric’s Avvar-raised bastard is totally loyal to Cailan but has made it clear that any attempt to include the barbarians in the civil war will be met with steel. Cailan is sincere in his desire to answer to the Landsmeet for his actions and has commanded that if he should be executed, all the Theirin support is to go to you.”_

The civil war had given Cailan a measure of wisdom, it seemed. Anora held the scrap of parchment to the candle and watched it slowly turn into ash. She reached for the next document, a finer piece of vellum drawn with the Book and Laurel Crown, Mara Cousland’s personal sigil. Of the Uasal Ard, the Half-Tranquil was the easiest to understand yet conversely the most enigmatic: dedicated to Ferelden at the cost of her own hope for advancement under her brother and apparently her fertility, but the girl took her duty to Calenhad’s kingdom in ways no one could anticipate.

            _“To Her Majesty, Anora Mac Tir ac Theirin, Queen of Ferelden,_

_My sorrow for the actions of my brother. The events of Highever twisted Fergus’ sense of justice into cruelty and there can be no mercy for him but that of the clean chop to the back of the neck. I stand with you and Cailan, who’s managed to grow up a fair bit, both as the wife of Alistair FitzMaric Theirin and as a member of the Uasal Ard, and I will abide by the will of the Landsmeet but for one thing: I am sterile and therefore cannot be counted in the succession. The Mac Eanraigs of Storm Coast and Waking Sea are confirmed as next-in-line for Highever and the Gilmores of Hunter Fell are confirmed as next-in-line for Amaranthine. In time of a Blight, we must lay our plans best we can and have a clear line of command._

_It has become known to me that Arl Eamon was the primary instigator of Cailan’s actions with the Orlesians, which led to this whole bloody mess. The Maker moves in mysterious ways, it seems, and sometimes it is in justice._

_Alistair is no threat to the Crown. His loyalty is to Cailan as his brother and – to a lesser extent – me as his wife. He considers you his kin while you are married to Cailan._

_You will be relieved as soon as is possible. Cailan won’t let you languish longer than he must and your father’s already champing at the bit._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Mara Cousland.”_

The girl had a lovely hand that put many a clerk’s to shame and more subtlety than Anora had previously given her credit for. It seemed that Mara Cousland supported the status quo, Anora and Cailan reigning together, and of all the letters Anora received, hers was the only one to mention the Blight. Anora was unsurprised the girl knew about the Crow Zevran’s poisoning of Eamon Guerrin, though judging by the dry tone bleeding through her terse words, she rather thought that Eamon deserved his vegetative state. The Queen allowed herself a thin wry smile. Mara was an ally of sorts, one who had no sympathy for her brother.

            The next letter was another scrap of parchment, the letters strong and awkward. A message directly to her from Alistair, the bastard sired by Maric on a Warden-Mage raised by the Avvar. Acclaimed Teyrn in battle, Teyrn of the Avvar by the decision of the Thanes, he was the best defensive strategist in Ferelden, according to her father’s grudging admiration. _“If he’d been the elder, Anora, the darkspawn would have been thrown back at Ostagar. There’s a fair bit of Maric in him, more so than Cailan, and he’s a hard hitter as well.”_

_“Anora An Celia O Mac Tir ac Theirin,_

_My brother knows he has been a fool. If you want blood-price for his actions, I can lend you a knife. If you want the marriage ended, that is between you and Cailan, and I will make sure he negotiates the weregild fairly. If you choose to remain wed to him (Mara thinks that is the best way), I will count you my sister._

_Alistair Ar Fiona O Skyhold.”_

            Simple words, strong with promise. She noted that he neither named himself Theirin or Cousland (the ‘ac’ was an old Alamarri way of appending a marital name to your surname). Fiona must have been his mother, an elf if her father was to be believed. In another time, he would have been out of the succession, but with Cailan and Anora not having an heir – at the least, Alistair’s children could stand in line for the throne.

            _“You can trust Alistair, perhaps more than Cailan, though I think the boy has learned sharp lessons.”_ Her father’s harsh voice echoed in Anora’s memory. _“He’s loyal to the Avvar as their leader, but once the Blight is over, he won’t be a Teyrn anymore. A leader like him is worth his weight in gold if his loyalty is won.”_

Anora’s hand closed over her signet ring. She would not relinquish the Lesser Mabari Throne without a fight, an ambition both Rendon and Fergus knew and thought they could manipulate. She let them think so, playing one against the other with ‘tests’ to prove their worthiness for the Mabari Throne, buying time for her father to return to Denerim and quite frankly rescue her and the city. Anora never allowed false illusions to cloud her judgment; she was trapped, the city stripped of its defenders when Ferelden went to Ostagar, and her willingness to parlay with the traitors might be turned against her by the Landsmeet, many of whom were displeased at having a ‘common-born’ Queen.

            _I have no choice but to forgive Cailan,_ she sighed inwardly, recognising that there was no chance of holding the Mabari Throne on her own short of Cailan, Alistair and Teagan Guerrin dying, and then having to marry someone like Gallagher Wulffe or Oswyn of Dragon’s Peak, and her grip would _still_ be shaky.

            It had hurt more than she realised to know that Cailan had been negotiating with Celene and implying he would set the daughter of Loghain Mac Tir aside for an Orlesian Empress. Discovering that he was trying to play the Great Game to protect Ferelden, because he felt that he could trust no one else, knowing that the Couslands had fallen because of his machinations… Her father called them ‘sharp lessons’ but Anora called them punishment for her hubris and refusal to work with Cailan instead of just patting him on the head and doing the work.

            _We must make Alistair Teyrn of Gwaren because Father won’t remarry and sire an heir,_ Anora decided dispassionately. _That also divides him and Mara Cousland, breaking up a potential power bloc. I trust Lady Cousland only so far because it was in the north that the civil war began. If I’ve read Mara’s words rightly, there’s strain between her and Alistair; if he’s Avvar, we could see that the rope he unknots will only manage a knot or two. That means we could end the marriage cleanly and confirm the northern succession while finding a woman amongst the Banns who would be palatable to my husband’s barbarian brother._

She burned the other two letters and then chose a sheet of parchment that would be delivered to her husband. A Mac Tir swallowed her pride, even when the hurt and pain were a knot in her throat, and put Ferelden ahead of herself.

…

There were refugees in the northern Bannorn, Dragon’s Peak in particular inundated with them, and Cailan felt the reproach in their eyes. He’d failed them as a King, let civil war and darkspawn ravage them, and now he rode past them with an army and shining golden armour.

            Alistair rode on his right side and Teagan at the left, the new Arl-Regent perpetually frowning. No more gallivanting to the Free Marches for the Grand Tourney for Arl Teagan of Redcliffe, the burden of a necessary marriage and production of an heir now on his shoulders. Cailan felt responsible for that too; he knew that Eamon had been poisoned because he encouraged the King to deal with Celene, but whether it was punishment for collaboration or punishment for failure, he didn’t know and likely never would. Cailan’s machinations had made a lot of people suffer and yet… and yet…

            Anora forgave him, though Cailan knew it was more through pragmatism than anything else; they would need to pry her cold dead fingers from the Lesser Mabari Throne before she gave it up. Still, he needed that pragmatism now more than ever.

            Mara Cousland stood with him. The Couslands became traitors because of Cailan, but Mara had stayed true. Of course, that was more for Ferelden than Cailan himself, but he’d take what he could get.

            Loghain had apparently decided to support Anora’s decisions, even if he wasn’t shy about being unhappy. He had, at least, stopped berating Cailan which was something of a relief.

            They were met at the intersection of the Imperial Highway and the Pilgrim’s Path by five hundred soldiers under the banner of the Book and Laurel Crown, Mara’s personal standard, led by Ser Rory Gilmore. “Bann Murtagh’s assembled the fleet and we’re blockading Denerim as per the plan, my lady,” he told Mara when she rode up on the slow-gaited mare she now used as a mount.

            “Good. We need to force a Landsmeet and end this civil war,” she responded coolly. “Well done, Rory.”

            When Cailan raised his eyebrow at her, he was met with a cold blue gaze. “Your original command was to end this civil war, no matter,” she pointed out. “That’s what I’m doing, Your Majesty.”

            Riordan, the Fereldanais Warden with Cousland blood, smiled sharply in approval. He didn’t seem much impressed with the Theirin brothers.

            The painful thing was that Cailan couldn’t reproach Mara for it. He could drop a word to Alistair, though, so that Lady Cousland knew to run plans by him _before_ doing anything.

            They had passed Dragon’s Peak and were now coming to the south of the city, Mara’s men joining the river of soldiers, indistinguishable but for the bands of Cousland royal blue and Amaranthine yellow knotted around their arms.

            Much to Cailan’s consternation, the Tal-Vashoth Iron Bull and the Free Marcher Thom Rainier joined the front party, ignoring Loghain’s raised eyebrow. For mercenaries who’d fought under Fergus Cousland, they were remarkably trusted by Mara. “We going to hit the bastards from behind?” Rainier growled.

            “No. We’re forcing a Landsmeet,” Mara answered. “Ideally, some of the mercenaries under Rendon and Fergus will be wise enough to surrender. Against the darkspawn, we need every sword.”

            “You’re making a couple assumptions, Lady Cousland,” Cailan noted. “Do we really want Howe’s scum and can Fergus’ men be trusted?”

            “If word from the city’s true, both armies occupy Denerim and Anora is stuck in Fort Drakon,” Mara said bluntly. “We can fight street to street or we can force those two into a Landsmeet. We will blockade the city landwards by dawn tomorrow. Fergus, if nothing else, will guarantee us safe passage to the Palace.”

            “We discussed this on the way to Highever,” Loghain rasped.

            “And no one saw fit to inform me?” Cailan asked acidly.

            “You never thought to ask,” Loghain growled.

            “His Majesty has a point,” Mara conceded with cool politeness in her tone. “I should have thought to mention it.”

            “Sure you don’t want to return to the Frostbacks?” Alistair asked dryly. “Leave the Landsmeet to their petty quarrels.”

            “You think I was being _petty_ when I failed to mention the plans we’d already made?” Mara asked him flatly. “I. Was. Shot. In. The. Fucking. Gut.”

            “Had you remained with us instead of running off because I overrode you in one thing, we would have taken Highever and Amaranthine before coming here, and you would still be able to bear children,” Alistair retorted waspishly.

            “And half the army would have been dead,” Mara countered. “You would sacrifice anything and everything for the Avvar, yes?”

            “Of course.”

            “I would do the same for my people, for Ferelden.” Mara actually looked a little hurt at Alistair’s words. “I’ve apologised for leaving. What more do you bloody want?”

            “I want my brother to be treated as your King,” Alistair said, looking between the two. “I… apologise for being sharp with you, Mara. But Loghain should know better.”

            “May I remind you that there are two mercenaries of dubious loyalty overhearing this conversation?” Loghain grated, looking at Iron Bull and Thom Rainier.

            “We stay loyal until the campaign is over,” Iron Bull retorted. “Fergus Cousland had his own sister shot in the gut and left us to take the fall for it. Lady Cousland was kind enough to accept Mercenary’s Truce and we chose to follow her.”

            “How much are you paying them?” Loghain demanded of Mara.

            “They have permission, do they serve loyally and well, to set up a winter base in Amaranthine,” Mara answered coolly. “The Riders and the Chargers are merging, yes?”

            “Yeah. We both lost a lot of men.” Iron Bull crossed powerful grey-fleshed arms. “I’m a frontline commander and Rainier’s more of a cavalry commander, something you Fereldans have precious few of. Most mercenaries dream of settling down and we’ve both got men who will be happy to take over the farms abandoned and devastated by your civil war. Orlais pays better, but Fereldans are more honest, so we’re going to stay here.”

            “I am quite within my rights,” Mara said pointedly to Loghain. “I accepted them because I actually knew of both companies by reputation. Ferelden fields mostly infantry, light and heavy, whereas the Chargers are specialists who straddle the line between adventurer and mercenary while the Riders are pure cavalry.”

            Loghain scowled but Cailan immediately got her point. Mercenaries, reputable ones at least, followed a code of conduct. They could cover weaknesses in the army and add different strengths to the force. “Just… please run these things by me, Lady Cousland,” he told the Half-Tranquil. “And you too, Loghain. Remember, if I am stripped of my kingship, Anora will likely lose the Lesser Mabari Throne unless she marries Fergus Cousland or Rendon Howe.”

            That shut Loghain up and Cailan sighed with relief. He would remain King and hopefully rule beside Anora instead of by her, but he would need to find a way to muzzle the old Teyrn. Loghain might be correct in many things but Cailan would no longer be ignored or sidelined or kept in the dark about things.

            The Blight depended them on being unified against the enemy.


	31. A Meeting of Fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for misogyny, ableism, death and violence.

Rendon Howe, the bane of his wife’s life, was an older man with iron-grey hair, a wiry strength that reminded Alistair of Daveth, and an avaricious gleam in his eye. He wore well-worn leather armour and regarded Fergus smugly as the doors were slammed open, Cailan, Loghain, Teagan, Mara and Alistair striding in, the smirk sliding off his face as he realised who the one-eyed man in golden armour was.

            “Welcome home, my husband,” Anora, a striking woman with sun-gold plaits and a commanding air, said coolly. “I trust the forces to combat the Blight have been gathered?”

            “Hello, dear. Yes, but for the Dalish, but we left that to the Wardens because the clans have an issue with us shemlen for some strange reason,” Cailan answered lightly. “I do apologise for the rather lengthy delay in Orzammar, but I assume those dwarven mercenaries came in handy?”

            “King Bhelen confirmed they’re on their way,” Anora replied calmly. She looked at Alistair assessingly. “Your bastard Avvar brother?”

            “My name is Alistair Ar Fiona O Skyhold, Teyrn of the Avvar until Blight’s end,” Alistair reminded her.

            “As you can see, my baby brother can speak for himself,” Cailan drawled. “When this is done, assuming he doesn’t return to the Frostbacks, I’m sure there’ll be a spare title in the Uasal Ard lying about for him.”

            “I was thinking we could make him heir to my father’s teyrnir if he wishes,” Anora answered calmly. “You can’t make a Teyrn step down to an Arling.”

            “I shall have to think about it, sister,” Alistair told her. Cailan had briefed him on the plans Anora and he made so he wouldn’t be caught by surprise. It was a pleasant turn of events from Mara’s secrecy and Loghain’s paranoia.

            Fergus collected himself and stepped forward. “Well done, Anora. You played us both.” Mara’s brother looked a little thinner but his eyes burned with zeal. “I assume you know about Cailan’s… accord… with Celene?”

            Anora bestowed a frank gaze on the Teyrn. “It was a plan we both made.”

            The dark-haired warrior paled. “That… _plan_ … killed my family!”

            “And you left me, Loghain and the majority of the Wardens to die at Ostagar, embroiled the Bannorn in a civil war, attempted murder upon your own sister, and besieged my wife!” Cailan roared, gaining gasps from the lesser nobles gathered in the room. “One was understandable, two forgivable as you believed me dead, but the third and fourth throw you beyond the pale into treason.”

            Fergus’ bog-brown eyes sought and found Mara, who had retrieved Cu from the kennels and his breeding there to stand by her side. “What’s this about you being nearly killed, pup?”

            “I reclaimed Highever after you lost it again to Howe’s mercenaries and when I infiltrated Amaranthine – before you ask, Rendon Howe, I showed Nate and Delilah more bloody mercy than you showed my family – your men fired at me, shooting me in the gut.” Mara’s voice was cold and toneless. “The Couslands, I fear, will die with you and me for I cannot have children.”

            “That was you?” Fergus looked stunned. “Where the hell did _you_ learn about tactics?”

            “She’s a Mac Eanraig!” Murtagh, Mara’s uncle, yelled out from the crowd. “Born to the seas and the Seawolf’s daughter.”

            Fergus closed his eyes. “Why are you standing with them, Mara? Have you fallen in love with your Theirin husband?”

            “I was the first amongst the Uasal Ard to speak of the Blight, to take Warden-Commander Duncan seriously,” Mara answered grimly. “I, alone of all the Landsmeet, have read the old stories about the previous Blights. I do care for Alistair deeply, but it is Ferelden that must come first. Justice twisted is vengeance, Fergus, and you have become a tyrant to make Hafter Cousland blanch.”

            _“He’s rabid!”_ Cu barked.

            “Harshness is needed in a Blight, little sister,” Fergus said almost sadly. “Cailan is a fool. And didn’t you advise me to pay court to Anora?”

            “That was when we all thought the King dead,” Mara said, true sorrow in her voice. “If there is anything of the Fergus who loved Oriana and Oren left, yield to the King. End this now.”

            Fergus’ gaze hardened. “I can’t, little sister. If Cailan thinks he can hold his throne, then let him challenge me in the old ways you hold so dear.”

            Cailan let his purple cloak drop to reveal the rune-edged dragonbone greatsword of their father. “I will gladly do so, Cousland. Howe? I would advise you fall on your sword because I will be less merciful to you.”

            Mara’s expression was cold. “Rendon Howe is mine.”

            The Arl made the mistake of looking into Mara’s eyes and he quailed before the absolute chill in those overlarge blue-grey orbs.

            Alistair turned his gaze from a dead man and looked to the duel between his brother and Mara’s.

            “I see you lost an eye,” Fergus said conversationally as they circled each other.

            “I assure you, I’ve learned to deal with it,” Cailan informed him.

            “Father should have taken the throne when your father died. Would have saved us a lot of grief.”

            “On that, we agree.” Cailan’s tone was self-deprecating. “I could, in a way, even forgive being left to die. But you compromised Ferelden’s ability to defend itself against the Blight when you let Loghain and the Wardens die.”

            Fergus glanced at Loghain, scowling at the pair. “He seems to have survived, more’s the pity. Tell me, was it you or Anora who poisoned Eamon Guerrin?”

            “Neither,” Loghain retorted with absolute conviction. Alistair supposed they ordered Eamon to be poisoned instead of doing the deed personally, so technically he wasn’t lying.

            Amund made his way to Alistair’s side as Cailan and Fergus clashed blades for the first time. “A pack of fools, all of them,” the Sky Watcher rumbled.

            “Agreed,” Alistair admitted. “But one of them is my brother and another my wife.”

            Mara had withdrawn after his hasty comments on the road to Denerim, her back turned to him in their shared bed despite his apology. She held grudges like Korth and had the coldness of Hakkon when she was doing what she deemed her duty. Alistair wondered if there was anything of the unsure girl who needed to know someone before she could love them remaining.

            “You could be part of the Uasal Ard. You’ve learned to command and you’ll never command amongst the Holds once the Blight’s done,” Amund pointed out. “You’ve been a good Teyrn, if a bit overinvolved in Alamarri politics.”

            “Having met a fair portion of the Uasal Ard, I’m tempted to decline,” Alistair said sourly. “Though to hear Mara tell it, I’m stuck here unless I join the Wardens or leave Ferelden.”

            “She’s been honest with you,” Amund said quietly.

            Alistair finally admitted the truth to his second. “I don’t think she’s the woman I fell in love with,” he said with a sigh. “I might have stolen the lass from Ostagar for my bride, but the Teyrna and Arlessa of half of Ferelden? No.”

            He’d spoken quietly to avoid offending Mara. She deserved to be told privately. But judging by the clenching of her fists in their blue leather gauntlets, his voice carried further than he thought.

            He’d tried to understand the Alamarri, to be a good husband to her, but every time he did something an Avvar man would do, she bridled and took offense. The coldness he experienced from her after pointing out the pettiness of the Landsmeet was the final straw, even after he’d apologised for not recalling she was wounded when she didn’t tell Cailan about the plans to take Denerim.

            Lady Cousland didn’t know forgiveness. In her way, she’d become as cold as Fergus and as ruthless.

            A blade came skidding his way, making Alistair jump, and the crowd began to babble. Paying attention to his brother, he realised that Fergus was on the ground with Cailan’s sword at his throat.

            “I am not the fool who left for Ostagar,” Cailan growled. “I have you to thank for that, Fergus Cousland.”

            “Then finish it,” Mara’s brother retorted.

            “No!”

            Riordan strode forward, resplendent in his Warden armour, flanked by Cauthrien and… Nathaniel Howe?

            “Fergus is a competent fighter and the darkspawn move north,” the dark-haired Warden said, blue eyes hard. “Let him redeem himself as a Warden. His… harshness… will be an asset there and we have the commanders and numbers to keep him out of trouble.”

            Cailan looked to be considering the idea as Mara glared at Nate. “I told you to leave and not come back,” she told the Warden flatly.

            “My duty to the Wardens comes before any edict of yours,” Nate said flatly. “I granted you the Arling of Amaranthine because I thought you were better than Fergus. You still are, but I won’t abandon Ferelden.”

            Rendon’s face blanched. “You gave that little bitch your right to the Arling? You pathetic-“

            He pitched forward, landing facedown with a knife protruding from his back.

            “By my right as Teyrna-Elect of Highever and Arlessa-Elect of Amaranthine, I have lawfully executed this man with more mercy than he deserves,” Mara said coldly.

            Anora half-rose from the Lesser Mabari Throne as Alistair stared at her. “Lady Cousland, you have not been confirmed for your titles!” the Queen called out.

            Mara stalked over and rolled Rendon Howe over to show his face and the unsheathed hand-axe in his hand. “He was going to throw that axe into his own son’s head,” she said calmly. “Howes have a bad habit of cutting their noses off to spite their faces.”

            Alistair found his voice. “You speak of Fergus’ sense of justice being warped, Mara Cousland, but I think yours is as twisted. You could have warned Nate, not stabbed a man in the back.”

            Mara flinched, face paling as her eyes widened. For a moment, he thought he saw tears, but she blinked and they were gone. “I assume you won’t be knotting a rope then, Alistair.”

            “I would have stolen the girl from Ostagar, but the woman who returned from Highever isn’t one I would wish for a bride. You hold grudges like Korth and have a heart as cold as Hakkon Wintersbreath.” Amund said she’d been honest with him? Then Alistair would repay her with absolute honesty. “When you pursue what you deem your duty, you are absolutely ruthless. Honour means nothing to you – not your own, not anyone’s.”

            Mara took a deep, shaky breath, visibly perturbed, as Fergus laughed against Cailan’s sword. “The Howes really managed to kill the Couslands, didn’t they?” the traitor crowed in bitter triumph.

            “Your Majesty, I wed this man at your command, still mourning the loss of my betrothed Dairren Loren of Caer Oswin. I wish, due to barrenness and irreconcilable differences, for that marriage to be dissolved.” Mara’s voice was calm and measured.

            “It… shall be done,” Cailan said, his tone reluctant. “I will see that-“

            “Don’t bother with an honour-price,” Mara interrupted harshly. “Just… don’t.”

            “As you wish.” Cailan looked genuinely regretful as he nodded to the Wardens. “Take him and if he survives the Joining, he better be the first one against the archdemon.”

            Nate’s mouth tightened as he looked to Riordan. “You’re just Conscripting him because he’s your nephew.”

            “I don’t believe in waste. Your father…? Not worth the Joining. Fergus, at least, had good albeit twisted intentions.”

            “Once the archdemon’s dead, I’m leaving Ferelden,” Nate declared. “This country is the mabari that devours its own young.”

            Alistair rather agreed with him on that. The Alamarri deserved at least half the strife they got.

            “Don’t forget to take Delilah with you,” Mara advised flatly. “I won’t abide a Howe in Highever or Amaranthine.”

            “Your sister is welcome in Gwaren, if I should become Teyrn when Loghain dies,” Alistair told Nate, making his choice. “I don’t hold her responsible for her father’s actions.”

            Nate smiled slightly. “Thank you, Alistair.”

            Fergus smiled, a bitter expression. “You shouldn’t have trusted the Theirins, pup. They’ve destroyed the Couslands because they knew we should have ruled.”

            “Amund?” At Mara’s high, taut voice, the big warrior turned around. “Alistair is now a Teyrn-Tanist of the Alamarri with his acceptance of Anora’s offer. If I understand the old laws correctly, he cannot be Teyrn of two peoples. Am I right?”

            “You are correct,” Amund rumbled. “I am now Teyrn of the Avvar as the second-in-command.”

            Alistair removed the circlet of the Teyrn and tossed it at the Sky Watcher, who caught it neatly. “Is there anyone in this room who hasn’t stabbed someone else in the back?” he asked of the Uasal Ard.

            “Of course not,” yelled Murtagh. “It’s the fucking Landsmeet.”

            “I will also cede Highever to the Mac Eanraigs with Alfstanna as my chosen successor,” Mara continued in that high, tight voice. “And I will take the name Howe. Because Fergus and Nate are right – the Howes killed the Couslands and I _am_ a Howe in spirit.”

            She looked around the Landsmeet, blue eyes blazing with pride and scorn. “While you sat, safe and sound or squabbling over the carcass of the Bannorn, Cailan, Alistair, Loghain and I were gathering Grey Warden treaties. We have lost West Hills, Lothering, South Reach and the Hinterlands to the darkspawn! I, Arlessa of Amaranthine, call for a decision to be made: confirm Cailan and Anora as King and Queen, equal in power and rank or find someone else to lead us against the Blight. Either way, stop wasting our fucking time!”

            Slowly at first, but with greater enthusiasm, the Uasal Ard voted. Cailan looked stunned, Anora was joyously surprised, and Alistair felt a moment of regret at ending their marriage. But he had to think of his honour and he couldn’t remain wed to a woman he no longer loved. Perhaps, one day, she would understand and thank him for freeing her.


	32. The Cold Calculus of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for grief and discussion of death.

“Mara…”

            The Arlessa of Amaranthine turned around to face Riordan. “He survived?”

            “Yes.” The Senior Warden folded his arms. “I think the full consequences of his actions are beginning to sink in. Grief makes a man do strange things.”

            “For some things, there is no forgiveness,” Mara murmured, more to herself than to her kinsman.

            “That is how some of the Wardens feel,” Riordan told her, coming to lean against the stone balustrade of the Royal Palace. “Cauthrien in particular is very bitter and Nate isn’t much better.”

            “And let me guess, Duncan will hold me responsible for the spectacular way Alistair and I broke up?”

            Riordan’s silence said it all and Mara sighed. Alistair had taken her withdrawal after his sharp words on the road to Denerim as the final rejection, the death knell in their relationship, and perhaps it was. But she’d expected to be the one ending the relationship as gently as possible, not be verbally eviscerated before the Landsmeet and return the action in kind. Shame that she’d descended to the worst sort of petty vengeance in stripping Alistair of his Teyrnship with the Avvar writhed through her veins.

            Her mind drifted back to when Eileen had challenged Alistair for the Teyrnship. Alistair, she realised, was a protector and he liked to defend his women. When Mara went from damsel in distress to her own avenger, the death knell for their marriage rang because she went from victim to predator.

            “I’ll bet bits to nugshit that he falls in love with Delilah,” she said aloud, recalling the frightened gaze of Rendon Howe’s only daughter. “He prefers a damsel in distress, so to speak, not someone who can hold their own as a strategist.”

            “You are far more dispassionate than I expected,” Riordan noted carefully.

            “I shed my tears last night after the Landsmeet. We have an army to organise and get moving.” Mara pushed off from the balustrade. “Cousland or Howe, my duty to Ferelden comes first and the Blight is, if my estimations are correct, entering the southern part of Redcliffe.”

            “Mara?” When she turned around to face her kinsman, the pale, dark-haired Warden cracked a slight smile. “I think Bryce and Eleanor would be proud of you.”

            “Thank you,” Mara said quietly, blinking back tears she didn’t have the luxury of shedding. “If I don’t see you before the march to Redcliffe, Maker watch over you and the Wardens.”

            “May He watch over us all.”

…

Teyrna Alfstanna Mac Eanraig of Highever was Mara’s favourite cousin and one familiar with ports, even if only an island one. She also fitted Mara’s Cousland-blue armour with little adjustment, as they were both slender and fine-boned, and had chosen for her personal sigil the Laurel Crown framing the aqua chevrons of Waking Sea, which was now held by one of the many Mac Eanraig cousins.

            She made a little space for her at the map table where Loghain, Cailan, Anora and Cauthrien stood, letting Mara squeeze in with a smile. “How goes it, my lady Admiral?” she asked lightly.

            Mara found it in her to crack a rueful smile. Cailan had named her Admiral of Ferelden’s Navy, such as it was, and granted half-rights to the tolls collected from the river trade. Even an Amaranthine devastated by the civil war and the neglect of Rendon Howe would recover with the coin from the river trade that Cailan and Anora wanted to foster in Ferelden, river trade that would end in Amaranthine. “I don’t see Alistair here,” she noted. “I thought the Teyrn-Tanist of Gwaren would be here to oversee any defensive aspects of the battle.”

            “I sent him ahead to prepare Redcliffe for the incoming Blight,” Cailan replied. “As you say, Alistair is the master of digging in his heels and making his enemies pay. I need you to work out logistics for getting supplies to Redcliffe and preparing the northern ports for refugees.”

            Mara handed him the paperwork she’d already done, calculations and rough estimates of the cost, time and effort to move people and items, and Cailan shook his head. “Have you developed the Sight as Seeker Leliana has, Arlessa?”

            “No, I needed something to keep me occupied and this was something that needed to be done.” Everyone else was celebrating the end of the civil war, including – if the love bites were anything to go by – Cailan and Anora themselves.

            Cailan handed the paperwork over to Anora, who glanced at it and nodded. “It appears fairly accurate. I could probably shave off a few sovereigns here and there.”

            “Good. I’ll draft all river barges and set half to carrying supplies to the Redcliffe front and the other half to carrying refugees from Denerim,” Mara said, tracing the river routes on the map with a finger. “With permission, I’ll offer them a relief from their tolls this year.”

            “Consider it done,” Cailan said decisively.

            “I set the fishing fleet to catching as many fish as they could when I left Highever and I assume Ser Gilmore continued that order in Amaranthine,” Mara continued. “If I were you, have the preserved foods and at least half the harvest put under Crown authority or we’ll be facing unprincipled speculators soon enough.”

            She recalled Lothering and the ruthless merchant there. She couldn’t abide that happening on a greater scale.

            “We might as well kiss any tax revenue from this year goodbye,” Cailan agreed with a sigh. “Anora?”

            Since they had been essentially forced to rule together as co-monarchs, Cailan and Anora had become more of the team that Maric envisaged for Ferelden when he betrothed them, allowing Mara to breathe a sigh of relief. Alistair as King of Ferelden would be an unmitigated disaster and with her out of the succession, it would fall to Teagan Guerrin – nice man, but not rulership material.

            “I fear so,” Anora said. “Though I’m not returning the harvest tithes. We need those for the army.”

            “Of course.” Mara’s hands tightened on the edge of the table. “Here’s the hardest part of the orders, Your Majesties: you will have to order the soldiers south of Lake Calenhad to kill anyone who looks pale and feverish. That’s the first sign of the Blight sickness. You’ll also need to order them to make sure that any female is dead; if a woman, elven, human, dwarf or Qunari is being dragged away, the archers need to shoot to kill because we do _not_ need those women becoming Broodmothers. Only Wardens are immune to it.”

            “Agreed,” Loghain said as Anora and Alfstanna looked ashen at Mara’s cold suggestion of slaughter. “Cauthrien?”

            “Broodmothers are corrupted females who spawn more darkspawn,” the Warden-Constable confirmed. “The Wardens who sought Paragon Branka fought one on the way. It was a grim battle.”

            “Makes sense. I would have the Chantry announce that it’s no sin to kill yourself if the darkspawn will take you,” Alfstanna suggested.

            “Very well.” Anora, despite her pale face, maintained her composure. “The orders will be given.”

            Mara sighed. “My brother survived the Joining, Your Majesties.”

            “We know.” The Queen didn’t look happy about it, a fact Mara could understand. Fergus and Rendon had occupied Denerim and mistreated a fair amount of people in the doing so. For instance, Howe had enslaved elves from the alienage and sold them to Tevinter magisters until Fergus killed the apostates.

            “He’ll find a cold welcome amongst the Wardens,” Cauthrien reassured Anora. “The only one with any warmth towards him is Riordan and even that is precious little.”

            Cu slipped in and rested his snout against Mara’s thigh to get her attention. She looked down at the mabari and scratched his ears before taking the message from the collar around his neck. She wished Alistair could have taught her how to understand the mabaris…

            “The Dalish treaty has been collected,” Mara announced, handing the message to the King.

            “Well then. The main bulk of the Wardens will go to Redcliffe. We’ll keep… hmm… Daveth and Riordan here in case the archdemon decides to attack Denerim,” Cauthrien said crisply. “Daveth knows Denerim like the back of his hand and Riordan is a better commander than Duncan, but not so good he’s irreplaceable.”

            Cailan nodded, leaning forward on the map. “Loghain and I will go to Redcliffe. Anora, can you hold Denerim?”

            “I _have_ been holding Denerim,” the Queen reminded him waspishly. “Keep a third of the army and Arlessa Mara here.”

            “Yes, a little time and space between her and Alistair is a good idea,” Cailan observed dryly.

            Mara chose to ignore that comment. Her mind was focused on the final strategy against the archdemon. “I need permission to install catapults on the top of Fort Drakon.”

            “Permission granted,” Anora said grimly. “Though where we’re going to find catapults…”

            Mara grinned suddenly. “Your Majesty, we have the wood, rope and iron needed. And I know for a fact that the instructions are in the royal library. I’ll put the templars to work – let the Chantry fulfil its treaty for a change.”

            Anora’s eyebrow shot up and Cailan smirked. “It seems that the Chantry signed a treaty with the Wardens that was stored in the Orzammar Memories. Seeker Leliana was unhappy that Mara brought it to Duncan’s attention.”

            Alfstanna, who’d remained silent until now, rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Have the Chantry open their granaries to the civilians. That will reduce a lot of hunger. The templars can oversee distribution.”

            “Good. That will mean more supplies for the army,” Loghain agreed, giving the new Teyrna a brief smile. “Let some of our Chantry tithe be actually useful for something other than fattening an Orlesian’s purse.”

            “The Empress’ silence is a little unnerving,” Anora noted coolly.

            “She’s just bitter she couldn’t get Ferelden through marriage, love,” Cailan said with a sigh. “Probably why she had Eamon poisoned, because he failed her.”

            Alfstanna gasped. “Arl Eamon was an Orlesian agent?”

            “Probably not what I’d call an agent,” Mara told her cousin. “More like… advocate.”

            Mara was happy to perpetuate a lie to keep Cailan and Anora from arguing over Eamon’s fate. Not every truth had to be revealed, not until it was safe to do so, and they needed these two working as a team.

            The Teyrna of Highever shook her head in disgust and pushed away from the table. “I’ll go oversee the Mac Eanraigs. Uncle Murtagh found a barrel of dwarven ale and after the last time, he’s not allowed to drink it unsupervised.”

            Mara chuckled ruefully. “Here’s to hoping he never meets Warden Oghren.”

            Cauthrien actually shuddered as she straightened to her full, formidable height. “I’ll oversee the marching order. With your permission, Your Majesties?”

            “Permission granted for everyone to leave because we’re leaving too,” Cailan said lightly. In some things, he would never change.

            The others exited the war room, leaving Mara and Loghain alone. The old warhorse examined the map before rolling it up and storing it neatly. To him, maps were sacred relics, an attitude Mara could well appreciate.

            “Your lack of tears after the Landsmeet and the orders you’ve suggested today will only enhance your reputation for ruthlessness,” Loghain finally said. “They’ll call you heartless and cold, lacking in compassion and mercy…”

            “In short, every accusation ever thrown at a Howe since the days of the Elstans,” Mara said dryly. “There’s a reason I took the name of my grandmother’s kin.”

            She looked outside the wide window. “I shed my tears last night. I don’t have time to weep and wail when Ferelden fights for its life.”

            “You understand.” Loghain’s voice was surprisingly compassionate and Mara turned around to face the gruff warlord. “Cailan… is Maric at his most selfish. He’s gotten better and now appreciates Anora, but it can’t be denied. Alistair is Maric the warleader, the King who embodied Ferelden’s honour.”

            “They’re both their own men,” Mara said quietly.

            “Indeed. Cailan has his faults but despite his selfishness, he is a compassionate man, one who will temper Anora’s pragmatism with mercy and charisma. Alistair has a tendency to sulk and lash out like a brat at times, a tendency I think you know well. Both of them are rather childish in their way.”

            “And I’m a cold vindictive bitch who holds grudges until doomsday,” Mara admitted with a bitter smile. “Alistair’s not far wrong on that part.”

            “Oh, I don’t disagree,” Loghain agreed with a wry smile. “Cailan is the shiny sword, Alistair the battered shield and Anora the swordswoman who will wield them both. But you are Ferelden’s sgian dubh. Thank you for your discretion in a particular matter, by the way.”

            “You’re welcome.”

            Loghain reached out to pat her shoulder awkwardly with a gauntleted hand. “I won’t insult you by saying that everything has turned out for the better. Alistair’s rejection will sting for a long time and Fergus’ legacy will burden you despite your clear and present loyalty to Ferelden. Whether you like it or not, you have a reputation for merciless pragmatism at best, cold ruthlessness at worst. But one day, the pain and the bitterness will fade to the ache of an old scar and Maker willing, you’ll be able to move on. You are the best of the Uasal Ard in your generation.”

            The Teyrn of Gwaren smiled and left the room, allowing Mara a little privacy. And in that moment, despite her claims of tears already wept, she found a few more for that it was over and they only had the darkspawn to face.


	33. Pay the Piper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for implied intercourse, death and violence. Timeskip to end this story in four chapters. I know Soldier’s Peak is the real name of the old Warden fortress but I call it Warden’s Peak because that makes hella more sense.

Zevran Arainai had absolutely no intention of dying to the archdemon. He had won his freedom from the Antivan Crows, Master Ignacio recognising the Conscription, and there were benefits to being a Grey Warden. One of them was the promise that once the Blight was done and the Thaw (the post-Blight slaughter of darkspawn) too, he could go wherever he pleased, untouchable but for orders from Weisshaupt. Ferelden was brown and smelled of dog shit, its people managed the hypocritical dichotomy of being crude _and_ prudish, and the entire nation was one bad day from barbarism. But there were opportunities here, Duncan and Riordan talking about reclaiming Warden’s Peak in Amaranthine for the Grey, and he still felt somewhat indebted to the Arlessa of Amaranthine for sparing him _and_ keeping the little secret of Eamon Guerrin’s poisoning to herself.

            So when Duncan revealed that the Warden who killed the archdemon was destroyed, body and soul, and received a rather nice memorial in Weisshaupt as reward – he was happy to let others get in line before him and pray to the Maker that someone finished the archdemon before his turn came.

            Duncan was happy to go first despite never seeing his Brytta again. From the sounds of it, the late Warden-Constable was only too happy to kill people, a trait Zevran could appreciate.

            “Perhaps Fergus Cousland should be first?” Cauthrien said bluntly, eyeing the tall, silent Junior Warden. “He has a lot to answer for.”

            “No,” Fergus answered, equally bluntly. “I will exist and remind Ferelden of what they lost in the Couslands.”

            “Why bother? Your sister calls herself Howe now,” Oghren pointed out with his typical lack of tact. The noisome, loathsome dwarf appeared to enjoy riling the latest Warden for some amusing but unknown reason.

            Fergus scowled at the red-haired berserker. “Mara became what she fought.”

            _No, your little sister realised that honour is bullshit,_ Zevran thought silently.

            “Duncan’s first, Fergus is second and the rest of us can draw lots,” Carver Hawke suggested.

            “Works for me,” Zevran said aloud.

            Regrettably, he drew the third lot, and he decided that he would be on the farthest side of the battlefield when the archdemon came. If he was too far away, he couldn’t be blamed, yes?  
            The meeting broke up after that, the Wardens needing their rest to break through the darkspawn that surrounded Redcliffe on the morrow.

            Much to his pleasant surprise, Morrigan was waiting in his chambers. The lovely witch was the perfect bed partner, wanting nothing more than a bit of his intimate time, and Zevran found her refreshingly pragmatic. Yet there was a tenseness in her demeanour tonight.

            “I know that the Warden who slays the archdemon will perish in doing so,” the witch said without preamble. “I also know you have no wish to die.”

            “I assume you have a way around this terribly tragic fate?” Zevran asked dryly.

            “I do. ‘Tis what the Chantry bumpkins call ‘blood magic’, but I think an assassin will have little qualms about it.” Morrigan smiled slightly. “There will also be pleasure in it.”

            She then proceeded to explain that her mother had sent her to conserve the power of the Old God by bearing a child with the taint who would have the creature’s soul. Of course, a Warden only newly come to the taint was needed. “And here I thought you were attracted to me because of my dashing good looks and charming personality,” Zevran said, perhaps a little hurt, but only a touch.

            “I would lay with Oghren if I must to bear this child,” Morrigan said dryly, “But I would prefer you because you are an eager and virile lover who enjoys pleasuring women.”

            Zevran puffed his chest a little. “What will you do when you are done?”

            “Go apart and raise this child. I would prefer no one follow me…” Now the witch looked uncertain.

            “I would wish no child to have me as their doting father,” Zevran admitted starkly. He hated self-reflection. “I will not follow you.”

            “I… thank you.” Morrigan smiled and rose to her feet. “I have other news: the archdemon has risen and is heading to Denerim. I saw it flying there on my way here.”

            “Merda,” Zevran swore softly. “Will the forces in Denerim hold?”

            “They’ll have to, because we’ll need to break through the horde tomorrow and do a forced march to Denerim,” Morrigan said dispassionately. Then she smiled sensually. “Shall we perform the ritual now?”

            Zevran shrugged. He couldn’t change the situation, so he might as well enjoy himself these past few hours and save his fellow Wardens. The inconvenient ones could die in the battlefield and get the glory of the matter. “Let us do so,” he agreed, holding out a hand for her.

…

Jowan felt the stirrings of energy in Zevran’s room and turned an arcane eye to them. Morrigan wove the bloody flows of magic deftly around herself and Zevran, entwining them with sex magic, and he extended a small wisp of energy to overhear what was going on. When he realised what was happening, the maleficar rose to his feet and paced around the small bedroom he’d been given, no one wanting to share with the big bad blood mage.

            In the end, he chose to wait until the spell was done and confront Morrigan as she was leaving Zevran’s room. “What did you just do?” he asked bluntly.

            “A spell to save the Wardens’ lives,” Morrigan answered quietly. She then explained the technique to Jowan and he whistled through his teeth at the simplicity of it.

            “Teach me or I inform Duncan,” he said bluntly. “This spell could save future Wardens.”

            She hesitated and then nodded. Jowan absorbed the mechanics of the spell swiftly and made other plans. It was one thing to save a Warden’s life but another to let an archdemon roam freely about, even in human form.

            He owed the Wardens everything and would not let their mission be jeopardised.

…

Fergus had refused second place in the line to kill the archdemon because he wanted to see Oriana and Oren again. Riordan had offered a cruel mercy in Conscripting him for the Wardens when he wanted Cailan to end it cleanly. Now he faced a slow corrupting death.

            Mara had lived up to her name of ‘bitter’. Mara Deidre, ‘bitter sorrow’, to be exact. Fergus believed she truly died somewhere between Lothering and Orzammar, corrupted by Cailan and his damned Avvar brother, who Fergus had trusted! They poisoned Mara, turned her into a Howe, and then discarded her. At least she no longer claimed the name Cousland, some shred of shame left in those cold blue eyes.

            He’d tried to save Ferelden and failed. Maybe he’d go to the Void when he died after failing his parents’ legacy.

            Fergus sighed heavily and returned to sharpening his sword. He would die cleanly, not to a tainted monster raised by the sin of men.

…

Riordan awoke, the voice of the archdemon ringing in his head, and he pulled himself out of bed – disturbing Bella, who’d followed him to Denerim because of the bad memories in Redcliffe – and donned a shirt. The monster would attack them any day, the horde heading to Redcliffe.

            It was just past midnight and Mara was still awake, going over supplies with Anora and Captain Kylon, head of the Denerim guard. “The archdemon, it’s coming this way,” he blurted.

            Praise the Maker, none of them doubted his word. The Queen commanded the guard to battle stations while Mara delivered brisk commands to Murtagh to get every damned ship from the harbour. The Bann of Storm Coast saluted and left at a run.

            Mara and Anora were two of a kind, planning for every possibility, and Riordan leaned over the map. “Daveth… thinks he can draw the archdemon to Fort Drakon and the catapults.”

            Anora looked confused until Mara opened her mouth. “Daveth’s a skin-walker, someone who can project their senses into the mind of an animal. I didn’t think he could control darkspawn though…”

            “A side effect of the taint,” Riordan admitted. “I… get the impression that it’s less ‘control’ and more ‘influence’. He will make it seem that all the Wardens in Ferelden are here, thereby dragging the archdemon here.”

            “Can he confuse it enough to stay away for a day or so?” Mara asked briskly. “I need a day to build the catapults and clear the harbour.”

            “I’ll do my best.” Daveth appeared at the door. “Got a pigeon from Redcliffe. They know and they’re on their way.”

            “It’s two days’ forced march from Redcliffe,” Anora pointed out.

            “Then we last two days,” Mara said simply. “Kylon, give the orders. Get the women of childbearing age in particular out through the Pilgrim’s Path.”

            “Yes, Arlessa.” The Captain saluted and left.

            “Forgive me for saying this, Mara, but I’m rather glad you’re sterile and out of the succession,” Anora noted dryly. “If you’d been an option, the Landsmeet might have chosen you.”

            Mara regarded her coolly but said nothing. Gone were the days of the bluntly honest girl with the habit of asking the most inconvenient questions. The woman in her place would have made for a fine Warden, willing to do what had to be done but without sinking into monstrosity.

            Anora wisely didn’t pursue the comment. Riordan suspected that his kinswoman had dirt on the Queen and so Cailan’s wife opted to not push her luck. “I’ll oversee the fortifications if you prepare Fort Drakon,” she said instead.

            “Done.” Mara nodded and left. Riordan bowed slightly and followed suit.

            The time to pay the piper was coming.

…

Cailan swore as he saw the archdemon fly overheard in confused circles. The Wardens were acting strangely until Jowan said, “Daveth.” For some reason, they calmed down and looked even grimmer than before.

            “We cannot rest, Your Majesty,” Duncan said gravely. “We must push ahead.”

            “Healers, banish their exhaustion!” Loghain commanded. The mages of Kinloch Hold obeyed, Tranquil handing out stamina potions for those who were looking ready to drop.

            Alistair strode up to him, flanked by Amund and Eileen. “You’d best address the men, Cailan,” his brother advised quietly. “They flag, weary and worn.”

            Cailan smiled at the tall warrior in his armour of red steel and bloodstone, the red-lion fur cloak around his shoulders. “Thank you,” he told his brother.

            “No, thank you,” Alistair replied quietly.

            “When this is over, talk to Mara. As members of the Uasal Ard, you’ll need to be at least cordial.”

            “We’ll be polite. Lady Howe is rarely _not_.” But a flicker of pain and regret shone in those elf-gold eyes and Cailan sighed inwardly. He’d had such hopes for those two, but the civil war and Mara’s own ruthlessness got in the way.

            He strode to the head of the army, climbing onto a box helpfully provided by someone. “The time has come, sons and daughters of Ferelden!” he roared. “The archdemon has risen, fearful of the army gathered against it. It faces the might of four mighty peoples, from the Alamarri to the Avvar, the dwarves to the Dalish, and it will die in despair banished by the blade of a Grey Warden! It’s time to avenge the losses at Ostagar and Redcliffe. For Ferelden! For the gods of all our peoples!”

            He raised his sword high and the army echoed his gesture with a roar. He wasn’t much good at the ruling stuff like Anora, but he could inspire the people to greater heights. He’d failed at Ostagar, but by the grace of the Maker he was given a second chance to save Ferelden.

            At last, he would do something his father hadn’t – helped slay an archdemon. If he died, that would be a pretty good way to go.

            The army headed for Denerim, to decide the fate of Thedas itself.


	34. The Time for Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for discussion of implied rape, death and violence.

Denerim lay in the distance, a great and terrible dragon flying overhead, and Alistair found himself unable to believe that anyone lived within Cailan’s capital city. Surely the horde had slaughtered everyone – they barely had the numbers to match what was at Ostagar, even with aid from the dwarves, Dalish and Avvar – and they would be marching to their doom.

            Then a streak of fire was flung from the top of Fort Drakon, narrowly missing the dragon, and he knew that some still fought.

            Loghain raised his sword. “For Ostagar! For Maric and the Maker! For Ferelden!”

            Alistair understood in that moment that for Loghain, Maric was his god, his reason for existence. Perhaps it was love, be it that of brothers or lovers. Perhaps it was that Maric was the day to Loghain’s night. But for a moment, Alistair wished he’d known his father.

            “We must take the gates!” Cailan yelled as they rushed forward.

            They hit the horde from behind, Alistair falling into the familiar patterns of battle. His company called themselves the Order of the Willow Spear, its core the warband that had acclaimed him Teyrn in war, and all of them fought with pikes. They set themselves against the hurlock alphas, the generals and the commanders, turning them into hedgehogs, and Alistair wielded them as the weapon they were.

            _This was a gift from your wife to you,_ his conscience reminded him in one of the precious heartbeats of calm in battle’s storm.

            He should really thank Mara for that, he supposed. She had encouraged them to acclaim him as Teyrn, after all.

            They won through the horde, the archdemon’s call contracting the darkspawn into a knot around the gates. The warriors fell back to allow the mages, shaman-born of the Avvar, Circle mages of Kinloch Hold, and even a few Keepers of the Dalish, to summon the power of lightning, fire and frost to scythe through the darkspawn. Morrigan chose a more hands-on approach, transforming into a giant swarm that left nothing but bones in its wake.

            When they took the gates, Maric’s Shield secured the area, the army resting for a moment as the leaders conferred. Duncan, his face twisting with agony, related that the darkspawn had two great leaders in the Market District and the Alienage; Loghain volunteered to take the Market District with the dwarves and Alistair the Alienage, taking the Dalish with him. Then they pressed on.

            The Alienage was full of Walled Elvhen who fought back with improvised weapons; Cailan explained that the last Arl of Denerim had forbidden them blades on pain of death. Alistair had suggested, for the sake of the mother he never knew, that policy be changed. The Dalish unleashed a storm of arrows that bought the Walled Elvhen time to throw water upon their burning tree, the Vhenadahl, which was a reminder of Arlathan lost. Then a red-haired young woman with a bitter twist to her mouth and burning eyes showed up, a bloody carving knife in hand.

            “There’s more at the gate which leads to the Palace Quarter,” she announced.

            “Then we shall meet them together, kinswoman,” Alistair reassured her.

            “I don’t have any shem relatives!” the elvhen girl spat.

            “I am Alistair Ar Fiona O Theirin, and my mother was a Walled Elvhen who joined the Wardens as a shaman-born. I have no shame in my ancestry.”

            The girl’s lips thinned before she turned towards the gate that needed defending. Alistair wondered what sorrow she endured her to automatically see every shemlen as an enemy.

            A thin, red-haired elvhen man with the look of tortures past and the same eyes as her showed up with a dagger in hand. “Shianni was the only survivor of the wedding party taken by Vaughn Uriens Kendall for his ‘pleasure’,” he explained bitterly. “My wife Valora and cousin Kallian were amongst them. When me and Nelaros, Kallian’s husband, went to rescue them… He died and I was imprisoned. Teyrn Fergus freed me from Howe’s prison after gutting Vaughn.”

            “I’m sorry,” Alistair said with all sincerity. “The Alamarri have much to answer for and I’ll make certain Cailan knows of this.”

            “Any elf-blood with the balls to claim his ancestry might even be telling the truth,” the man observed dryly. “Just… please don’t be angry with Shianni.”

            “I am not,” Alistair assured him in some confusion. Why would he be? She had every right to be bitter.

            Then it was time to defend the gates.

            When the wave was over, Alistair looked to the Dalish. “Give the Walled Elvhen the weapons of your dead,” he ordered. “If any shemlen says anything, tell them that Prince Alistair commanded it.”

            The leader of the Dalish, a blond elvhen with fresh vallaslin, nodded with a smile. “My pleasure,” he answered. “I’m Pol and I used to live here.”

            Shianni accepted a dar’misu, a Dalish curved dagger, from Pol and burst into tears. Alistair granted her the honour of not noticing it. He needed to face the next wave.

            A towering hurlock in bloodstained bronze armour came barrelling up, shoving lesser darkspawn out of the way, and Alistair smiled grimly. The General had come, it seemed, and it was aiming straight for him.

            They met in a clash halfway between the armies, Alistair’s dwarven-forged sword scraping against tainted shield as they both roared defiance. He head-butted the hurlock, the noseguard of his red steel helmet crunching through tainted bronze and making the darkspawn stagger back. Then the darkspawn’s blade bit into his side, only rings of chainmail saving Alistair from the taint, and the world vanished into the red haze of a Reaver.

            When Alistair’s gaze cleared again, he stood alone amongst a scattering of darkspawn body parts, the warband behind him cheering. He was exhausted and weak, bleeding from a couple wounds, but a healing potion would take care of that readily enough.

            “Pol, secure the Alienage,” he commanded. “Willow Spears, with me!”

            They pressed across the bridge that elvhen servants used to travel between their alienage and the Palace Quarter, where the Uasal Ard kept their homes to be close to the Palace. Darkspawn engaged them but were soon killed… but then the archdemon itself came swooping by, destroying the bridge behind them. Some of the warband cried out in fear, but Alistair allowed himself a bloodthirsty smile.

            No one fought harder than the one backed into a corner, as the archdemon was about to discover.

…

Every step in the Palace District was paid for in blood, that of the Willow Spears and the darkspawn, but they found Loghain and Maric’s Shield before the steps to Fort Drakon. “Cailan has taken the Golden Blades into the fort,” he rasped, gasping for breath. “Teagan is holding the Market District.”

            Alistair nodded, recognising the name of Cailan’s personal warband. “Have the dwarves hold the doors to Fort-“

            Two… little archdemons descended from above, the wind of their wings knocking back soldiers as they landed.

            “And here I thought the rest of the battle would be boring,” Alistair laughed as he went to engage one and Loghain the other.

            Compared to the high dragon he fought at Ladyhold, the dragon-thrall was no great threat, though dangerous enough. Alistair began by breaking one fragile wing and then the other, avoiding those wicked talons, then decapitating it with one clean blow. The dragon-thrall’s head fell from its serpentine neck with a spray of blackened blood just as its friend screamed a death cry as Loghain ran it through.

            Then the general fell to his knees, blood gushing from a wound in his side, and the face that he turned towards Alistair was pale with more than his usual skin tone.

            “M-Maric?” he asked, voice a fevered rasp. “The Blight… You were right…”

            Alistair sheathed his sword and drew the small dagger he saved for mercy strikes. “The battle is done, old friend. There’s meat, mead and cheese waiting for you.”

            Loghain laughed, black-flecked blood staining his lips. “Only you would mention the cheese-”

            Alistair drove the dagger into Loghain’s heart and bore his heavy weight to the ground, laying him down as Maric’s Shield gathered around him.

            “That was well done,” said a fair-haired female warrior in heavy chainmail. “I’m Sergeant Tanna, the highest-ranking officer in Maric’s Shield. Any orders, ser?”

            “Guard the doors and Loghain’s body. Do not let the darkspawn take either.” Alistair wiped the dagger on his cloak and resheathed it. Others may need mercy this terrible day.

            His eyes were blurry with tears but he dashed them away. All they were doing was buying the Wardens time to strike down the archdemon. “Willow Spears, with me!” he roared. “Let us show the archdemon despair!”

            Much to his surprise, half of Maric’s Shield joined him, and he took the moment to form them into a proper shield-wall with the heavy tower shields the company used interspersed with the pikes of the Willow Spears. Then they marched into Fort Drakon to take the fort for the Wardens.

            There were genlocks here, small stealthy creatures who favoured attacks from behind, but there was no weakness in Alistair’s tortoise formation. The emissaries did a little more damage as there were no mages in the group – until Alistair ran ahead and introduced the necromancer to his sword. Shade, Shriek, ghoul, hurlock, genlock – they all died at the hands of the warband Alistair led through the winding corridors of Fort Drakon.

            They made it to the roof, where Cailan fought back to back with Anora, who revealed she actually knew something of weapons. The Golden Blades were mostly dead, the soldiers manning the catapults and arbalests too busy trying to bring the archdemon down to pay attention to military casualties, showing the same monofocus that Mara demonstrated when she was on a mission. Appropriately enough, she was commanding them.

            Alistair roared and the Willow Spears surged forward to relieve Cailan and Anora.

            Then a small figure in blue and silver climbed up the tower and threw itself off to land on the archdemon’s back. The monster arched in pain, roaring blistering agony as the Warden drove his silver blade into its back, and managed to buck him off. The Warden demonstrated extraordinary flexibility, drawing another dagger and landing on the wing-web to let momentum drag him down through the tough membrane.

            “Fall back!” Mara screamed as the archdemon began to flap desperately, heading straight for them. The Warden slid from the wing and fell, no doubt to be claimed by Korth’s stone flesh below.

            Alistair listened to her and they quickly got out of the way. Then she commanded the soldiers to turn the arbalests and catapults inward, to help cripple the archdemon, before diving away in time to miss being flattened by the tainted beast’s body.

            He smiled, hand tightening around his sword. It was time to end this.


	35. An End to Things, Once and For All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for suicide, implied miscarriage/abortion, death and violence. Last chapter! Thanks for following, liking, kudos, reviewing and everything else!

Mara had thought Ostagar Blighted and unpleasant but the true reality of the archdemon’s rise – a fetid wind from a sky the red-purple of bruised flesh only the harbinger of the tainted, rotting monstrosity – proved her wrong. The soldiers in charge of the siege equipment wore vinegar-soaked rags on their faces, forcing themselves to ignore the dead and dying soldiers that followed Cailan as their only duty was to bring down the archdemon for the Wardens to finish.

            Then Duncan, grieving desperate Duncan, launched himself from the tower in a swan-dive and shredded one of the archdemon’s wings, bringing it crashing to the courtyard of Fort Drakon. Mara ordered everyone to get out of the way as it was the Wardens’ show now with the troops providing only support. The deathblow _had_ to be struck by the Grey Wardens.

            Jowan was the first through the door with Fergus, Morrigan and Zevran at his heels. “Does anyone object to blood magic to help end this?” the maleficar asked with a hint of acidity.

            “Kill it and be done,” Alistair retorted, voice hoarse. He looked like a darkspawn himself, red and orange with a Reaver’s rage twisting his handsome features.

            The maleficar bowed his head mockingly to the Prince and stabbed his knife through his palm, tendrils of blood magic swirling around the form of the archdemon as it belched purple flame at its attackers. Much to Mara’s surprise, there was Amund in the group that poured through the door, and a tall, gaunt elven mage in a Keeper’s robe. They worked to keep the darkspawn breaking through the doors and she pulled herself together, ordering the arbalests to shred the archdemon’s wings some more with their heavy bolts.

            Morrigan assumed swarm form and left stripped darkspawn bones in her wake as Jowan fought to keep the archdemon bound beneath ropes of blood, the lingering life force of the fallen soldiers drawn by a second spell to power the maleficar’s awesome spell. Daveth, his nose bloody and looking like death warmed over by buying them a full day, lingered by the door to no doubt let someone else take the deathblow. Mara couldn’t fault him for it.

            “Hold fire!” Mara commanded, her throat on fire from shouting so much. She pulled out the last dregs of the potion Wynne gave her to soothe her throat and swallowed it. “It’s the Wardens’ show now! Cailan, Anora, Alistair – get off the fucking roof!”

            Even bound by blood magic, the archdemon was hard to kill, its purple fire a deadly deterrent. The elven mage died in blistering agony, a better fate than the Blight, and the archdemon’s tail flung Amund back to land heavily on his back with the crack of ribs. Mara let the soldiers flee without complaint, two of them dragging Amund back into the tower and Cailan and Anora wisely going with them. Alistair looked over his shoulder, hesitating, and then ran inside.

            Mara sighed. That ship had sailed. But someone had to witness this and who better than her?

            “Get to the door, Mara!” Riordan yelled. “When the archdemon is slain, there will be a great burst of energy.”

            So she obeyed, slamming the doors shut and leaning against them, watching as the Wardens hacked the archdemon into nigh-death.

            Morrigan had assumed human form again and was shaping complex gestures with her fingers by the door, watching the Wardens intently as they argued amongst themselves. Zevran was pointing to the archdemon and barking at Fergus while her brother shook his head stubbornly. Finally Zevran snarled in disgust, grabbed a sword, and ran up to finish the beast.

            As soon as he plunged the weapon into the beast’s head, a great light illuminated his form and Mara quickly opened the door. “Go, go!” she ordered the Wardens.

            Just before the light engulfed the courtyard, she saw Fergus face the shockwave of force with a smile and let himself get thrown from the top of Fort Drakon. Then she and Daveth slammed the doors shut and felt the energy batter them before absolute silence fell.

            It was an end to things, once and for all.

…

Of course, with the archdemon dead, there were things to be done. Mara existed on nervous energy as she arranged healers for the surviving Wardens and Morrigan, who had suffered a vicious blow to the midsection, as Jowan briefed the others on what had happened. Riordan looked stunned and then thoughtful, nodding in his deliberate manner, as Carver and Cauthrien both looked decidedly unhappy and Oghren simply shrugged. Nate was nowhere to be found. Somehow Morrigan had found a way to cheat the end which faced the Warden who slew the archdemon and Jowan made sure that the monster was dead, its soul banished to the Fade. She found herself keeping another secret close to her heart because how else to ensure peace and security? The Wardens were needed as the Thaw would linger for years yet and her sword-oath still held, at least in her eyes.

            She gladly relinquished command to Anora and Cailan, heading back out into the courtyard to behold the rotting archdemon’s corpse. Every bit of blood would be drained from the beast to make future generations of Wardens, every scrap of flesh wrung dry, and Mara almost wished she could make a study of it herself.

            “The deathblow will be assigned to Fergus,” Riordan said from behind her. “Zevran had no desire to answer awkward questions at the hands of the Orlesian and Free Marcher Wardens and… the Cousland name ended in honour. It’s what Bryce and Eleanor would have wanted.”

            “I doubt that greatly,” Mara said with a sigh. “I will say nothing.”

            “I know.” Riordan watched Jowan work his magic, gathering the oily blood of the archdemon into one great iron vessel for transport. “I will be Warden-Commander of Ferelden. We will need to reclaim Warden’s Peak in the Arling of Amaranthine for our new base, though we’ll be maintaining the compound in Denerim. Cauthrien will be Warden-Constable of Denerim because of her close relationship with the Crown and Carver will answer to her. Daveth has elected to reclaim Griffin’s Rock in the Korcari Wilds and establish the order amongst the Chasind and Avvar. Zevran, Jowan and Oghren will be remaining with me.”

            “I will establish a half-tithe for the Wardens,” Mara assured him hoarsely. “I’d split the Chantry tithe, but if I did that, I’d get excommunicated and couldn’t hold Amaranthine after that.”

            “Thank you.” Riordan echoed her previous sigh. “It will be a long struggle, but we will rebuild. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

            Mara nodded and left the courtyard. Of course, she wouldn’t rest until she dropped of exhaustion. Miles to go and all that shit before she could sleep.

…

“Arlessa?”

            The Iron Bull (Maker forbid that she should forget the article) and Thom Rainier approached, forcing Mara to swallow another sigh. Two days after the archdemon’s death and the surviving populace was herded into the Noble’s Quarter as the mages burned the rest of the city to be rid of the taint. Cailan and Anora were already making plans for a new Denerim to raise from the ashes while speculators and slumlords were already attempting to hike the price of tent canvas to exorbitant levels. For some bloody reason, the co-monarchs seemed to think she could put a stop to it.

            Mara didn’t _want_ to be bloody Chancellor, though Alistair had accepted the command of the army. It was bad enough she was Admiral, which meant she would need to come to Denerim at least four times a year to work with Alistair. It was bad enough that Amaranthine was in a bloody shambles. The only nobility with more work than her were Teagan, Arl Gallagher Wulffe, and Arl Leonas Bryland.

            _A King’s gratitude is as short as a dwarf’s legs,_ Mara thought wryly, recalling the old Alamarri proverb. She had literally talked herself mute dissuading the pair of them and putting Oswyn of Dragon’s Peak forward as both Arl of Denerim and Chancellor; he may have lost the use of his legs thanks to Howe but he retained his full set of wits, and would need to be kept busy to avoid falling into despair. Once she left for Amaranthine with the Wardens at the end of the month, she hoped her suggestion would take.

            She realised that the Bull and Thom were staring at her pointedly and she sighed once more. “What?” she croaked, not sounding particularly gracious about it.

            “Is it true we’re getting Vigil’s Keep?” the Tal-Vashoth asked.

            “Yeah. I need to stay in Amaranthine, be close to the sea.”

            “Our very own fortress,” the Bull said with a smile. “Fergus offered us a sovereign a head and one percent of the loot!”

            Thom regarded her silently for a moment before saying, “I’d like to transfer to the Amaranthine militia. The leadership loyal to Rendon needs to be purged and that means you’ll have no competent, trustworthy commanders.”

            “Why?” Mara asked.

            “Bull and I can’t decide who should run the mercenary company and I don’t take orders from fellow mercs well,” Thom admitted dryly as the Bull smirked. “The second is that you’re a leader worth following.”

            Mara doubted that. She had to yell herself hoarse to get the soldiers to move and even now, Loghain’s prophecy about her being renowned for cold pragmatic efficiency was being fulfilled.

            “Alright,” she agreed. The problem with Tal-Vashoth was that they could be Viddathari, spies for the Qunari, but she needed the Bull and his men. Thom Rainier had won the great melee at the Grand Tourney and some people were impressed by that. Mara cared only that he was a decent commander who seemed fairly trustworthy.

            “Good. Come by the Chargers’ camp later. I have a drink called maraas-lok that will put some chest on your chest.” The Iron Bull grinned, slapped Thom on the shoulder and gave Mara a little pat that still staggered, and ambled away to return to his men.

            “Watch it, that stuff will turn you mute permanently, my lady,” Thom said ruefully.

            “Is that why your voice rasps nearly as bad as mine?” she asked.

            Her new commander smirked. “Nah, yelling at that big horned idiot to not engage ogres alone during the battle for Denerim did that.”

            Mara found a laugh as he bowed, took her hand and kissed it in the Free Marcher style – on the palm instead of the back of the hand as the Orlesians did – and left to no doubt see which of the Chargers (and his Riders) wanted to settle down in Amaranthine.

            Within a few moments Alistair rounded the corner, no doubt eavesdropping. For all the Teyrn of Gwaren’s vaunted honour, he was adapting swiftly to the necessities of court politics as Cailan’s right-hand man. Mara looked at him, resplendent in fine hound-hide trimmed with fennec fur with the diadem of a Prince on his forehead, and realised that she felt… not nothing, but certainly no love. There was regret there and perhaps a trace of lingering affection, but he had changed enough as a person that the bond which was forged from Ostagar to Orzammar was gone. This man, the hard-eyed commander who took pleasure in battle yet decried Mara’s efficiency in keeping casualties to a minimum, wasn’t one she could love despite his many virtues of loyalty, courage and charisma.

            Elf-gold eyes watched her steadily, his face neutral, and Mara sighed. “I don’t hold a grudge against you for ending the marriage,” she rasped aloud. “I would have done so, sooner rather than later. I also apologise for having you stripped of your Teyrnship over the Avvar at the Landsmeet. That was pettiness on my part, to do it so.”

            “So I pre-empted your decision then,” Alistair noted, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “You gave up before I did.”

            “Perhaps I did,” Mara agreed. “Our marriage was doomed once I was shot in the gut. I wish it had ended on a better note though. For a while, in Orzammar, I truly loved you.”

            “And I you.” Alistair shrugged his broad shoulders. “There is no quarrel between us. Even keep the marriage-gift. Amund told me to tell you that you are welcome amongst the Holds.”

            “Thank you, Alistair,” Mara replied. Even as a Teyrn of the Alamarri, Alistair was still very much an Avvar, and amongst the Avvar nothing lasted forever.

            He turned away without a farewell and Mara watched him leave with a sense of relief. An end to things, once and for all. Ferelden would limp along but soon the kingdom would heal.

            As _she_ would heal, the wounds of the past closing into aching scars. Cailan had insisted on giving her a new surname – Mac Farraige, ‘Daughter of the Sea’, because Delilah Howe had requested she not bear the surname.

            Mara Mac Farraige smiled and turned for the palace. An end to things, once and for all, even her pain and grief.


End file.
